


Not Sick

by nauticalwarrior



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorder, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, it has a plot now, it's grown, kinda weird tbh, maybe possibly usuk later on?, trigger warning for that eating stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticalwarrior/pseuds/nauticalwarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland is not sick, not yet. When every little bubble, every little clump of nasty, congealed, filthy fat was gone, then, he could call himself sick and perfect and wonderful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not yet

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for eating disorders
> 
> based on my own experience
> 
> i don't own hetalia
> 
> maybe will become multi chapter if people like it and i feel the motivation?

Arthur Kirkland was 110% worthless. When he breathed/talked/blinked/ _ existed, _ he could feel every handful/pound/ounce/gram/cell of fat fat  _ fat  _ on his stomach/thighs/soul. His tongue shifted uncomfortably in his mouth, and he shifted uncomfortably on the silver scale. He hadn’t lost enough (a stone is not enough) and he was too fat, too heavy, too weak (9 stone 12 pounds is too much). Too bad, he thought. He’d make up for it, for every extra molecule of disgusting, yellow, slimy grease wrapping itself around his skeleton. No breakfast for Arthur, no lunch for Arthur, no dinner for Arthur. Weaklings don’t get to eat. 

 

Arthur slid off the scale and onto the tile, slid into jeans and into a sweater. The thick yarn clung to his thick abdomen, and his mouth pulled down into a frown. These clothes made him look fat, showed off everything. But, he  _ was  _ fat. This was his rightful, deserved, holy judgement, punishment, repentance. He would suffer and starve to apologize for his blubber, his chub. Disgusting, disgusting Arthur would lose every sin clinging hungrily to his clean, white bones. It was his fault,  _ his fault,  _ that he was this disgusting, giant creature of gluttony, and it would be his fault when he was thin and beautiful and  _ perfect.  _

 

Arthur drifted into the hallway, floated into his bedroom. He was oh so glad he lived alone- other people didn’t understand. They were blindblindblind to his fat, to his failures. Arthur  _ knew  _ that what he was doing  _ could  _ be vaguely considered a “problem”- but that was stupid, like Arthur. Stupid, stupid boy, he isn’t  _ sick _ . Sick is bones and concave stomachs and ribcages and dark circles and purging and loose sweaters and love and clean and everything he wanted- but Arthur Kirkland is not sick. He’s too weak, too much of a  _ dirty fucking failure  _ to call himself sick. 8 stone 13 pounds was “underweight” for his height, and when Arthur could step on the silver scale (his best friend- the scale never lies to him, never whispers sweet lies into his ears and begs him to eat) and see 8 stone, plain and unadorned with extra fat, then, and only then, could Arthur call himself sick. 

 

So, Arthur did not have a problem with not eating enough. His problem was how he stuffed his fat whore mouth with sweets and crisps and cheese the  _ second _ he felt a faint inkling of true hunger. That was why Arthur was still fatfatfatfatfat. That was why Arthur had stopped buying food weekly- now, he buys food daily. Exactly what he needs, no more. He only keeps two things in the house all the time, rice cakes (35 calories each, safe and tasty) and unsweetened applesauce (50 calories, the perfect meal). Each day was started with hot tea and a rice cake, each lunch was applesauce and hot tea, and each dinner was soup from the store. He had two soups he liked, one at 60 calories and safe, the other at 140 and  _ scandalous.  _ That soup was for days where he could barely walk, days where he skipped lunch, days where he worked out extra hard.

 

But oh no, Arthur was such a fat failure that he couldn’t even stick to his own damned plan. Alfred or Francis or someone else would show up with a smile and pizza, or he’d come over for a short visit and end up staying for dinner. A day of 150 perfectly safe calories would turn into a disaster; he’d stop and get candy and more food on the way home. Thousands of calories down his gullet, burning away his beauty and building up mounds of glistening, yellow  _ rot  _ under his skin and in his organs. He could feel it, see it, smell it, taste it on his tongue when he heard the phone ring, and he slid over to answer it. 

 

“Hey, dude, what’s up?” It was Alfred, the king of sin. Gluttony was that man’s middle name and motto, but he was so  _ thin,  _ so  _ beautiful _ , so  _ lucky  _ that he could eat and eat and never gain a pound. 

 

“Not much. How’re you?” Arthur is always, always polite, even when his mind is buzzing and dull. He can never think clearly anymore, can he?

 

“I’m great! You wanna come over for drinks? I talked Kiku into coming and Francis is on his way and  _ dude  _ he and Gil are bringing so much alcohol you won’t believe it!” Alfred is rambling on and on and on but all Arthur hears is that alcohol is empty calories, thick fat in a thin, numbing disguise. 

 

“Ah, I can’t, sorry. I’ve got work tomorrow, and you know I hate working with a hangover.” The lie slips out so so easy and Arthur doesn’t even have to think about lies anymore. They are part of him, hiding somewhere in that  _ uglyuglyugly  _ fat.

 

“Awww, seriously? Well, I’ll come over tomorrow and we can watch movies or something! No alcohol involved, don’t worry. You may think me unobservant, but I, the great Alfred Jones, never misses a thing!” Arthur heart  _ lurches _ , oh god he  _ knows.  _ “I noticed your little no-alcohol kick, and while I’d never be into that myself, I’m totally gonna be the cool friend about it! Although honestly I have no idea why you’d want to miss out because apparently Gil is really good at mixing cocktails and Francis isn’t driving them there because Gil already got his ass drunk. Oh- I think they’re here! Sorry to cut this off short, but I should go and get the door!” Arthur is so relieved he barely hears a word Alfred says but still sighs a-

  
“Sure thing. See you.”- before Alfred hangs up. His friend may be much, much lounder than him, but he is also much more determined and  _ strong  _  and if Alfred figured things out, it would be so so hard for Arthur to not be weak. But for tonight, Arthur has his hot tea and his bed and his empty, growling stomach to keep him company. Safe, safe company that won’t ask him to eat, won’t ask him to drink, won’t ask him what’s wrong. Not that anyone would ask, because Arthur Kirkland isn’t sick, not yet anyways.


	2. Movie night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur does actually enjoy the company of others, despite how little they must enjoy him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahahah it's grown

Arthur blinks blearily in the morning sun. His stomach growls, and he turns over, happy, proud. This is how things should be- Arthur is empty, clean, pure. His insides are weightless, and no grime dares to contaminate his veins. Dragging himself out of his somewhat-warm bed and stepping onto somewhat-cold tile, he smiles a sleepy smile and shuffles into the bathroom. 

 

Arthur peers at the mirror hopefully. His blond hair is sticking up in some places, his eyes are puffy from sleep, and his face is  _ still  _ chubby. He can’t even see his collarbones- it’s ridiculous. No breakfast, he supposes. No breakfast to ruin his clean insides, his chance at maybe being thin one day. A grimace on his face, he strips and takes a tentative step onto his scale. 9 stone, 11 pounds. One less than yesterday morning. Too much. 

 

The shower spray is warm when Arthur steps in, basking in the comfort. He’s always cold lately; he knows why and loves it. As he scrubs his pale skin into an angry red, he imagines that he can scrub the fat away. He can  _ see  _ it, puffing out around his hips, his waist, his soul. His thighs (much too large) seem to mock him, thick hunks of fat that could feed a family. If Arthur was to be butchered and cooked, he thinks he would feed a family for a year. If they would even buy meat as fatty as him, that is. 

 

The shower spray is much too cold, much too fast. Arthur shuts off the tap and steps onto the bathmat, wrapping his towel around him and shivering. He is tempted to step on the scale again, but he knows there’s no point. Instead, he wraps the towel around his (fat) waist and walks across the hall and into his bedroom, to his dresser. Jeans, a sweater, a shirt under that, underwear, and socks all go onto his thick, disgusting body, hanging limply in protest. He knows that people who are really, truly ill wear so many layers that they look healthy in width, that they are cold cold they dress for winter weather in summertime. Arthur is not that sick. He gets hot if he wears a jacket over his sweater, hot if he wears any more than he is now. He hates hates hates the summer, because it reminds him painfully of how  _ not  _ sick,  _ not  _ thin,  _ not  _ perfect he is. 

 

Arthur sighs and plops down in his desk chair, staring at his blank computer screen with, blank, blank eyes. He doesn’t have to look at the clock to know he needs to leave for work now, and despite the way his head spins and his stomach burns, he gets back up and slides his shoes on, without food. Despite how much his body is saying  _ ea!teat!eat!,  _ Arthur ignores it and steps out of his apartment, a determined scowl on his face. 

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur stumbles into his apartment, his mind fuzzy and spinning and confused and  _ wow  _ maybe he shouldn’t have skipped lunch too. Oh well. At least he might lose some damn weight this way.

 

“Hey, Arthur, I was wondering when you’d come home! Did you forget that I was coming over?” Arthur looks up, surprised, at his friend on his couch. That’s right, Alfred had invited himself over last night, and Arthur hadn’t really protested, had he? But right now, Arthur is tired tired tired and Alfred is  _ not.  _ Arthur  _ really  _ regrets giving his friend a key. 

 

“Dude, you okay?” Alfred is standing up now, and Arthur vaguely recalls that Alfred had asked him a question (and he didn’t answer, did he?). 

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.” It isn’t a lie, exactly. Just half (or a quarter or an eighth) of the truth. Arthur is very, very tired- his lack of sleep is clinging to his bones, right under all of the fat, and dragging him down down down. 

 

“Alright, if you say so! I brought over Iron Man, since you said you haven’t seen it, and snacks! Here, look!” Alfred is dragging Arthur over to his table and opening a plastic bag of food. Arthur is wishing he wasn’t here. Arthur is wishing he didn’t exist, for now at least.  “We’ve got microwave popcorn, candy, chips- crisps I guess-, and soda! I know you aren’t a huge fan of coke, so I got some weird french thing for you. It’s pomegranate flavor, how cool is that?! Francis recommended it, said it was pretty good even without alcohol.” 

 

“Thanks, but I had a big lunch. You were right, I totally spaced on you coming over. I still want to watch the movie, though.” Arthur offers Alfred a small smile and Alfred  _ beams  _ at him, like Arthur’s smile is the greatest gift he’s ever received. 

 

“Yeah, that’s cool! Iron Man is really good, you’ll like it!” Alfred drags Arthur into his living room and basically shoves him on the couch, still grinning. “You just sit tight, I’ll get it set up! God knows I’ve used your TV sooooo many times before now.” Arthur laughs, remembering countless movie nights and netflix marathons. Alfred  _ definitely  _ had the experience necessary to run Arthur’s TV. Lately though, Arthur hadn’t been inviting Alfred over as often, and he hadn’t seen the man nearly as much as he used to. Didn’t they used to hang out every night? Arthur wanted to,  _ needed to,  _ see his friends more, but he is scared that they’ll see his grossfilthydisgusting body and stop wanting to be his friend. Or, that they’ll notice his eating and force him to eat, force the fat into him. No, a night of fun isn’t worth an eternity of  _ fat. _

 

“Alright, it’s all ready! I’ll just microwave the popcorn, and then we can start it. You sure you don’t want any? I brought a whole box over, ‘cause I figured we’d stay up all night watching stuff!” Arthur looks blankly at Alfred for a moment before shaking his head. No, he does not want any greasy, yellow, lumpy, soggy, fat- er, popcorn. Alfred seems to get the message enough because he’s at the microwave now, humming some american pop song and reading the back of the popcorn box. Arthur, too, would read the package, but he does not look for instructions or heating times. He wants to,  _ needs to  _ know exactly how many poisonous calories are hiding in his seemingly innocent food, lest he eat too many. Lately, just about everything is too many.

 

A loud beeping interrupts Arthur’s thoughts, and he glances back at Alfred, who’s dumping the steaming hot popcorn into a big bowl. When had he gotten that out of the cabinet...? Arthur sighs, he  _ has  _ been rather spacey lately. Spacey, weak, and dizzy. The package deal. Arthur can’t wait until he’s underweight, so that with his light, airy, spaceyweakdizzy body and mind, he can call himself super super sick. Well, that’ll have to wait until he’s more than just a little underweight. He wouldn’t want to seem like he’s  _ faking _ . Which he probably is. After all, if he was really sick, wouldn’t he be dead by now? He’s been struggling with this for  _ so long,  _ and he’s still at a “normal” weight, bordering on overweight. And, he’s spacing out again, he notes as Alfred plops down beside him and clicks the remote, starting the movie.

 

“Dude, I’m  _ so  _ pumped for this movie. It’s a superhero movie, obviously, but I brought some other stuff for later too, plus there’s always Netflix. It’s been wayyyy too long since we hung out, you know? I’m glad that you let me come over tonight.” Alfred is  _ beaming  _ at Arthur with that too-good, too-bright smile and Arthur can feel the corners of his mouth rising in response.

 

“Yeah, it had been a while. I missed you, a little bit.” Arthur is blushing blushing blushing- his face shouldn’t be hot, that’s not fair. He doesn’t starve himself so he can get hot in the face at the worst of times. 

 

“Me too! I mean, I missed you too. I didn’t miss myself, that’d be ridiculous!” Alfred smiles at Arthur once more, then turns his attention back to the movie. For once, Arthur feels warm, content,  _ happy _ . It’s good to spend time with friends, even if Arthur himself isn’t great company. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! i'm a slow writer rip. but there's more coming, don't worry! i'm thinking maybe 2-3 more chapters? not sure just yet!


	3. Popcorn and pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Arthur are READY for MOVIE NIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do you mean im too lazy to write a summary that was a summary

Arthur stares blankly at the TV screen as the credits for Iron Man roll, listening halfheartedly to the excited voice of his friend beside him. 

 

“Dude! That was great! We gotta watch the sequel next, we gotta!” Alfred sounds like an excited puppy, and Arthur can’t help but smile. 

 

“Sure thing. Do you have it with you?” Arthur doesn’t see Alfred stand up, but he feels the couch shift. 

 

“Yeah, yeah I do! I’ll get that started, and then we can probably get the third one online when it’s over.” Arthur hears rustling and he glances over to see Alfred going through that plastic bag he brought over. “Do you want any candy? I got a bunch of different stuff.” It feels as if Arthur’s tongue died in his mouth and slipped back down his throat. No, he does not want any candy. He has been so good lately, so careful, and he is  _ finally  _ actually losing some goddamned weight. Arthur  _ does not  _ want any of that poison to spoil his progress.

 

“No thanks, I’m fine.” Arthur can’t help but notice that his voice sounds a little strangled, a little higher and weaker than normal. He is a touch dizzy, a touch weak, but no more than usual. Alfred surely won’t notice, won’t press; Alfred isn’t that-

 

“You okay?” Arthur  _ flinches _ . He’s kind of okay, he guesses. Sort of. Depending on your definition. By  _ his  _ definition, he’s great. Clean, and empty, and losing weight. Even if he is  _ fat _ . 

 

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Belatedly, Arthur realizes he neglected to actually respond to his friend. Whoops. Alfred sinks into the couch beside Arthur, movies forgotten.

 

“I’m fine, sorry. Just a bit tired.” Arthur glances at Alfred’s face and sees that his mouth is set in a small frown, his eyebrows creased worriedly, and his shoulders tense. It’s Arthur’s fault that Alfred is worried now.  _ Arthur _ did a shitty job at hiding his problems, and now Alfred is upset because of it. Discomfort and guilty curl uncomfortably in the bottom of his stomach, doing nothing to ease the ever-present throb of hunger. 

 

“Alright, just... if something’s wrong, you know you can tell me, right? I mean, I know I’m not exactly good with feelings, but you’re my friend and I don’t want to see you upset.” Alfred looks down and to the side, and Arthur tries to ignore the urge to tell him everything. If he tells someone now, then he’s just doing it for attention. Only  _ fakers  _ tell people. If he was  _ really  _ sick, then Alfred would guess.

 

“I’ll let you know if something’s wrong, okay? But for now, let’s get that movie started!” Arthur forces a smile, and it must have been convincing because Alfred beams his bright, bright as the sun smile at him and hops up to set up the film. Arthur feels a real smile forming, a little upturn of the lips. He is really quite blessed with his friends. 

 

* * *

 

 

It is morning again, and Arthur’s neck is  _ very  _ upset that he fell asleep on the couch next to Alfred. Arthur vaguely recalls that Alfred was still awake when he decided to rest his eyes for just a bit, still awake with wide, blue eyes fixated on the screen. Alfred, now, was still asleep, his smooth, tanned eyelids (could eyelids be tanned? Alfred just had darker skin than Arthur, always had.) covering those beautiful eyes. The corners of Alfred’s pale pink lips are curved into a gentle smile, revealing that Alfred is having a far better dream than Arthur ever did. No, Arthur’s dreams/nightmares are filled with piles and piles of greasy, rich, sweet, hot, bubbling food that marched itself into Arthur’s mouth. That he did nothing to stop. Just like in real life. Arthur never stopped eating, never for more than a moment. 

 

This time though, he’d have some damn control. He’d finally prove to himself that he isn’t faking. For now though, Arthur decides to make Alfred breakfast and tell his friend that he’s already eaten. It won’t be a problem; Arthur can tell just from the way he feels right now that he’ll resist easily. He mixes flour, sugar, baking powder, eggs, and milk in a bowl while the stovetop heats up a pan. Pancakes are more Alfred’s brother’s thing, but Arthur didn’t dare try to make anything else. Not only would Alfred not trust it, but he’d probably get sick if he  _ did  _ eat it. Arthur is, well, potentially not the greatest chef there is. He  _ can  _ cook some stuff (two things other than tea: scones and pancakes), thanks to the forceful teaching of Matthew and Francis. 

 

The last pancake is maybe a touch overdone, and he had to throw out the first two, but finally, there are two plates piled high with pancakes. Not buttermilk, because Arthur didn’t have any, but with lots of butter and syrup, just how Alfred likes them. Arthur take his plate, smears the butter and syrup around, cuts off a little bit to leave behind, and dumps the pancakes into the garbage can unceremoniously. On top, he puts the newspaper, the empty bags from Alfred’s snacking the night before, and some paper towels for good measure. The scent of batter and sugar from the garbage can could easily be denied; Arthur  _ had  _ just cooked pancakes after all. Satisfied with his performance, Arthur sat down at his table, sipping tea like he had just finished a pleasant meal. 

“Morning!” Alfred’s sleepy greeting  _ still  _ manages to startle Arthur, despite the fact that he’s been waiting for it. 

 

“Good morning, Alfred. I made pancakes, but since I didn’t know when you would be up and I didn’t want mine to get cold...” Arthur trails off, crossing his fingers that he doesn’t sound suspicious.

 

“Ah, that’s cool! As long as these are  _ pancakes  _ and not some weird concoction.” Alfred laughs and Arthur conceals his smile with his teacup. Alfred  _ knows  _ that Arthur can make pancakes, but he still teases him about it anyways. That’s what friends are for. Arthur watches Alfred sit across from him, eyeing the pancakes like a wolf would eye a rabbit. Okay, so maybe Arthur is a touch loopy in the mornings, but Alfred  _ does  _ look hungry. 

 

“Thanks for this dude, I’m starving!” Alfred grabs his fork and cuts into the pancake, smiling at Arthur.

 

“It’s not a bother. Mostly, I was just hungry.” Arthur smiles back at Alfred, but it doesn’t quite reach his ears.

“That’s because you didn’t eat any last night!” Alfred doesn't wait for Arthur to reply, instead choosing to dig in, shoving buttery pancake into his mouth with near inhuman speed. Arthur tries in vain not to stare, feeling familiar jealousy creeping up his spine. It’s just not  _ fair _ , not reasonable, that Alfred can eat so much and not gain a pound. Nevermind Arthur’s own vices; Alfred surely has some magical power. 

 

“You really were hungry, huh?” Arthur feels like he would have missed the pancakes if he’d blinked at the wrong moment. Alfred is rubbing his stomach, tapping his foot and smiling at the same time, making Arthur doubly envious. Alfred didn’t just  _ eat;  _ he ate and didn’t feel a bit of guilt. Lucky, lucky Alfred. 

 

“Yeah, I was! Hey, can I use your shower? I’m feeling kinda greasy.” Arthur nods at Alfred, wondering if the man usually showered in the morning. This isn’t the first time that he has, but Arthur still finds it a bit surprising that Alfred cares so much about his hygiene. Either way, at least he isn’t  _ fat. _

 

In the time that Arthur has spaced out, Alfred seems to have gone to the shower. Arthur brushes off his thoughts and stands up, walking hesitantly into the kitchen. He should  _ probably  _ do the dishes before Alfred got back. He turns on the tap and grabs a sponge with a sigh. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i promised myself that i'd have alfred figure it out this chapter.... didn't happen whoops


	4. pokemon and pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's day with Alfred continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kinda slow but whatever. also sorry i took like FOREVER to update

“Man, that was refreshing!” Arthur turns from his spot on the couch, setting his phone down beside him. Alfred is standing in the hall, a long sleeved button down and jeans replacing his earlier outfit of a sweater and sweats. Steam rushes out of the open bathroom door, remnants of Alfred’s shower.

 

“Going somewhere fancy today?” Arthur asks, arching one eyebrow suspiciously. Alfred doesn’t normally dress nice, ever. 

 

“Nah, this is just what was clean when I packed my stuff to spend the night. I think my boss made me buy this, for meetings and stuff.” That explains it. Arthur smiles and shakes his head. One of these days, Arthur would get all of Alfred’s clothing to be somewhat nice. 

 

“Hey dude, do you have work today?” Alfred plops down on the couch, a grin on his face. Arthur has to think before replying- what day is it today? Saturday, that’s right. 

 

“No, I’m off all weekend. You can stay longer if you want, I don’t mind.” It didn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what Alfred wanted. Still, Arthur’s glad for his company; it does tend to get a bit lonely in his house. 

 

“Hell yeah!” Alfred punches a fist in the air, a pleased grin on his face. Arthur rolls his eyes at the childish gesture, but he can’t help but smile too. “Dude, we totally should play some videogames today. Do you have anything good?” Arthur huffs and glances at his meager games collection.

 

“Other than stuff you’ve left over here, not really. You didn’t bring any with you? I’m shocked.” Arthur fixes his friend with a fake glare of accusation, and Alfred laughs again. His smile, his laugh, are  _ so bright.  _ It’s too easy to relax around him. Arthur can’t afford to relax, because relaxing means failure, means messing up, means eating. 

 

“I did, actually!” Alfred’s reply, accompanied by another of his bright, bright laughs, startles Arthur out of his thoughts. God, he really needs to stop drifting off like that. Why can’t he just keep his mind off of his stupid problem for  _ one fucking day? _

 

“Great! What did you bring?” Arthur barely has to force the happiness into his voice; he really, truly, does enjoy Alfred’s company, his exuberance, his kindness. He wants, needs,  _ loves _ the way Alfred’s blinding brightness burns a hole right through Arthur’s foggy misery. 

 

“Just one of Japan’s games. Not a horror game this time! It’s for kids actually; can you believe I’ve never played Pokemon before?” Alfred grins sheepishly and Arthur’s eyebrows go sky high. 

 

“Wait, what? How could you possibly have avoided those games? I thought they were really popular in the US?” Arthur grew up in England, and even he had played Pokemon!

 

“I don’t know dude, but I have a copy of one of them with me. Kiku lent me his DS too, so I’ve got all the equipment. You still have yours right? I remember when you used to play it instead of paying attention in Algebra, right after you moved here. The teacher musta taken it up a thousand times!” Alfred laughs, and this time Arthur does too, bright and happy just like Alfred. He can remember those days in startling clarity; he was happy, he had friends, he was  _ thin _ . But then he got stupid, and only Alfred gives a damn about his fat ass. 

 

“Yeah, I’ve still got all of my old games actually. Which version do you have?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Whaaaat?! He just one hit my starter!” Arthur snickers at Alfred’s distress.

 

“I did warn you that you should have at  _ least  _ a party of level thirties before you fight him.” Alfred simply groans in response, throwing the game down onto the couch. Somehow, in their playing, they’ve moved so close that they’re almost touching, Arthur notes. It’s not exactly unpleasant. 

 

“Ugh, I need a break. Plus, it’s lunch time. What kinda stuff do you got?” Arthur’s throat closes a little at the mention of lunch. Yes, he’s  _ hungry,  _ but he’s been ignoring it. He’s been doing so good lately, and if he eats, he might mess up his progress. 

 

“Uh, I don’t know. I don’t think I have much though...” Arthur trails off as Alfred walks leisurely over to Arthur’s fridge and pulls it open, his eyebrows drawing together.

 

“Um, dude,  _ what. _ ” Alfred is clearly confused, and Arthur wracks his brain for what he has in his fridge. Just applesauce and diet coke, probably. “Why do you only have applesauce?” And there’s his confirmation.

 

“I told you, I don’t have much. It’s been a while since I’ve gone to the store.” Arthur hopes dearly that his explanation is at least vaguely convincing. He really does not want Alfred figuring things out.

 

“Alright man, whatever you say. Wanna order pizza? There’s a domino's nearby I think.” Alfred sounds cheerful again, which is good, but he’s offering Arthur  _ poison _ . Pizza is evil evil evil, and Arthur can’t recall a single time he’s had it and  _ not _ binged. He can’t have  _ any _ , if they get it. He must resist.

 

“Sure, if you want. I’m not really hungry though.” Arthur turns back to his game, feigning disinterest. He  _ is  _ hungry, and the voice of his lizard brain wonders if  _ maybe one slice wouldn’t hurt? _ But Arthur knows that he can’t let himself slide, can’t resist.

 

“Okay, so I’ll just get a small pizza then. You sure you don’t want any? I’ll buy!” Alfred sounds cheery again, thank goodness. Arthur doesn’t look up, but replies.

 

“No, I’m sure. You get whatever you’d like.” Arthur walks his little character into the PokeCenter, trying to ignore the protests of his body, the burning emptiness of hunger, the fact that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday at lunch. Fails to ignore it and knows he  _ deserves it.  _ He hears Alfred’s phone beep as he calls Domino’s to bring sin into Arthur’s home, into his mind. But not into his belly, no, never into his belly. Arthur is going to  _ resist.  _ Arthur isn’t nervous, Arthur isn’t shaking, Arthur is  _ perfectly fine.  _ Because he isn’t sick, he can’t be anything less than okay. 

 

“Hello? Yeah, I’d like a medium pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, and bacon.” Arthur’s stomach drops into the floor. As Alfred says Arthur’s address, Arthur buries his face in his hands and hopes dearly that Alfred got a medium pizza with mushrooms- Arthur’s favorite topping, which Alfred doesn’t even  _ like-  _ because Alfred wanted it and not because he’s going to try to get Arthur to eat. 

 

“Hey, are you okay?” Arthur jumps a little because Alfred’s voice is suddenly really close. He takes his face out of his hands and glances up at Alfred, who’s standing over him, eyebrows knit together with concern, a frown on his face. 

 

“I-I’m fine.” Arthur curses himself for stuttering. Subtlety had never been one of his strong suits.

 

“You sure don’t seem fine. Look, I’ve got a hunch, and I hope it’s wrong, but I haven’t  _ seen  _ you eat anything this whole time I’ve been here. Please just eat some of the pizza, when it gets here. For me?” Alfred’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, and for a moment all Arthur wants to do is bury his face in Alfred’s button down shirt and tell him everything. But he doesn’t, because Arthur isn’t really sick. He hasn’t earned that kind of care, hasn’t earned concern.

 

“I’ll have some pizza, if only to prove that I’m perfectly fine.” Arthur looks away from Alfred’s face, so he feels, not sees, Alfred sit down next to him. Feels, not sees, Alfred pull him closer and  _ hug  _ him. Feels him sigh, feels his warmth.

  
“You know, you can tell me if something’s wrong. I care about you, and I hate seeing you hurt.” Arthur knows, he knows, but nothings wrong because he’s too weak to be sick. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls comment i love attention and also thank you to everyone who reads this thing. also i just realized that this is like all dialogue whOOPS
> 
> AND HOW DO I MAKE THE FIRST CHAPTER'S END NOTES STOP BEING ON EVERY CHAPTER AHHHH


	5. More pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur still doesn't really get why Alfred's his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters just keep getting longer... this one was gonna be longer, but I wanted to post it today so I decided not to right out every little painful detail of a scene that probably isn't necessary. thank you guys for all of the feedback! it's really helping to motivate me!

Arthur sits with his head once again in his hands as Alfred pays the pizza man and thanks him profusely, probably tipping him way too much for Alfred’s budget. The smell of hot cheese and cooked dough washes over him in waves, almost mocking his inability to do anything right. He is going to fail fail fail and it’s all his fault for not hiding it well enough. Alfred walks over, and Arthur watches him warily, like he might suddenly try to stuff food down his throat. 

 

“Okay dude, you only gotta eat one piece, alright? You’ve basically already proved that you aren’t alright by acting like I’m about to murder you and not give you free food, but you do need to eat.” Alfred smiles halfheartedly at him and Arthur feels dizzy with how fast his stomach drops.  _ Of course _ he’s already given it away; subtlety is not his strong suit, never has been. But now Alfred’s going to force him to  _ eat _ , and this probably won’t be the only time. Arthur feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying not to further contribute to how fucked up he is in Alfred’s eyes. 

 

“I can handle one piece.” Arthur realizes how very  _ weak  _ he sounds and swallows nervously. He watches as Alfred walks into the kitchen, setting the pizza box down as he goes, and grabs two plates. Arthur can see just how fit, how muscular his friend is and feels bitter jealousy rise up within him. It just isn’t  _ fair.  _ Alfred eats and eats and eats, yet he’s always in good shape. Arthur knows that he isn’t blessed with such good luck. Alfred hands him a plate with a slice (a large one, obviously on purpose) and Arthur accepts it, trying not to inhale more of the too-tempting aroma of hot pizza. He doesn’t realize he’s been staring at it until Alfred clears his throat awkwardly and takes a bite out of his own slice pointedly. Arthur responds by picking up the slice and carefully taking a  _ very  _ small nibble of it. It tastes  _ so good _ , but Arthur isn’t shocked. Food  _ always  _ tastes good when he’s been restricting. But if he eats anymore, he’s going to binge and then he’s going to be  _ fat.  _ Fat fat fat fat Arthur. Can’t he do  _ anything  _ right? He can’t even hide his stupid mistakes, and now he’s obediently eating pure calories.

 

“Whoa, hey, no waterworks.” Alfred’s standing up and putting his warm hands on Arthur’s shoulders in comfort before Arthur even realizes that his face is damp. When had he started to cry? He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a little squeak. Arthur can feel his face twisting into what must be an ugly, ugly knot of frustration and tears. Even when he cries he’s just  _ gross _ . His next breath becomes a sob, and Alfred is pulling the plate out of his hands, setting it onto the coffee table, and pulling Arthur into a hug.

 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re okay, I promise.” Alfred’s hand is rubbing circles in Arthur’s back, and it’s strangely comforting. Arthur doesn’t even know  _ why  _ he’s crying, but he just lets himself go, fresh tears coming out in waves. He wraps his arms around his tall, American friend and clenches his fist in the fabric of his shirt, burying his head in Alfred’s chest. He’s probably getting Alfred all wet, and he’s  _ definitely  _ making a huge ridiculous scene, but Alfred is still whispering soft reassurances in his ears anyways. What did he even do to deserve a friend like this? All Arthur ever does is fuck up, yet Alfred still puts up with his crap. 

 

“I-I’m sorry...” Arthur mumbles into Alfred’s shirt, hoping that he doesn’t sound as upset as he thinks he does. 

 

“Don’t be. You’re my best friend, and it’s no problem for me to help you out. I just wish that you’d told me about this before it got to this point.” Alfred doesn’t sound  _ mad,  _ but he does sound frustrated. Arthur feels a well of guilt in his chest. Why is he wasting Alfred’s time? He’s not even underweight for fuck’s sake. 

 

“It’s not really that big of a deal...” Arthur tries to cover his mistakes, patch things up, but he knows he’s only made it worse when he feels Alfred stiffen and hears him take in a sharp breath. 

 

“Well, it- it sure seems- ugh,” Alfred is struggling to get whatever he’s trying to say out, and Arthur feels that burning, red-hot, angry guilt once again. “Look, if it’s making you cry like this, it’s a big deal to me, okay?” And then Arthur can’t say anything, so he nods against Alfred’s chest and squeezes his eyes shut. He always messes up, doesn’t he? Stupid fatass brit can’t do anything right. He takes in a shuddering, tear soaked breath, trying his best not to sob and failing horribly. He feels Alfred’s hands, his warm, strong hands, rubbing his back soothingly; he feels Alfred holding him tight, like he can protect his sobbing friend.

 

Arthur pulls back gingerly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. He takes in another shaky breath, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. He’s already made a big enough mess as is. Now Alfred’s going to expect him to eat, he’s going to get fat, and then Alfred will hate his stupid ass for lying. 

 

“You good?” Arthur looks at Alfred and sees concern, so much concern. Arthur doesn’t deserve that. He hasn’t earned it.

 

“Yeah, I’m okay now.” His voice still sounds a bit watery, but he smiles weakly for his friend’s sake. Alfred, of course, responds with a beaming grin. Why can’t Arthur be that pretty? 

 

“So, uh, don’t cry again, but I still want to see you eat that pizza.” Alfred, despite his words, is still smiling, albeit not so brightly. Arthur swallows nervously. He thought he’d gotten away with not eating.

 

“Erm, do I have to?” He nearly winces at the obvious nerves in his voice. God, what does he look like to Alfred right now? There’s no way somebody like Alfred genuinely cares about his sorry ass. Alfred only sticks around because he’s known Arthur forever. Nostalgia, that’s why. Arthur tries to shake the feeling that he’s trying to convince himself of things that aren’t true because even if Alfred  _ does  _ care, he can’t afford to be wrong about that. 

 

“Yeah, you do. Sorry dude, I know it sucks, but your body needs food. Even if you feel like you shouldn’t eat, you really do need the nutrients.” Arthur is snapped out of his thoughts for what must be the millionth time to stare at Alfred with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Why does Alfred know so much about this anyways? It’s not like he’s Mister Psychology or something, he’s an engineering major! 

 

“How come you know so much about this, huh? And why is it any of your bloody business?!” Arthur isn’t entirely sure when he started to get mad, but he’s definitely reached the level of “extreme irritation,” at the very least. 

 

Alfred just laughs. “There’s the Arthur I know!” His grin drops a notch, moving from blinding to just there, “But yeah, I know a guy who’s going through something... similar.” Alfred looks a little melancholy now, and Alfred narrows his eyes. 

 

“Is it someone I know?” Arthur stares Alfred down as the other man shifts uncomfortably.

 

“Kinda, yeah. But it’s not really my place to tell you.  _ And  _ you’re trying to get me off topic. You still gotta eat the pizza.” Arthur suddenly finds himself tempted to look away, to avoid the vibrant blue of Alfred’s eyes. He doesn’t want to do this, he can’t do this, he  _ won’t  _ do this.

 

“No, I don’t.” Instead of looking away, Arthur buries his fear and crosses his arms over his chest, defiance burning up inside of him. Alfred, however, doesn’t get mad. He doesn’t even grin that stupid grin of his. 

 

“Why not? What’s the harm?” Alfred sounds so serious; he’s not asking out of naivety. No, Arthur thinks he knows exactly why not.

 

“I don’t want to.” Arthur fights the urge to smirk at Alfred. How is it that arguing with him can be so irritating and so fun at the same time?

 

“Why don’t you want to?” Alfred isn’t even phased. “What’s scaring you? I’m not trying to be difficult dude. I wanna know why so that we can work through this.” Arthur frowns at that. Alfred’s way too nice to him. Arthur doesn’t deserve that.

 

“Because I’m trying to lose weight.” Arthur sees Alfred cringe. Of course he’s disgusted. Arthur is disgusting. 

 

“One piece of pizza won’t prevent you from losing weight. Neither will two, for that matter.” Arthur sighs. Yes, he  _ knows  _ that. But two will turn into three will turn into  _ fat _ .

 

“It’ll slow down my progress though, and I may end up eating too much.” Arthur isn’t looking at Alfred now, but he can’t remember looking away.

 

“So you’re worried you’ll binge?” Arthur flinches, and his gaze snaps right back onto Alfred’s eyes. He  _ hates  _ that word. 

 

“I’m not a bloody bulimic!” It comes out as a shout, but not nearly loud enough to explain how Alfred flinches violently and looks away from Arthur, his face twisting into a frown. Why does he think  _ he’s  _ got any right to be upset? Arthur’s the one getting an intervention!

 

“Alright, look, why don’t we decide on an amount you’ll eat ahead of time? I’ll make sure you don’t eat more than that, so you can eat without being worried.” Arthur stares at Alfred in disbelief. He’s seriously still trying to negotiate about the damn pizza?!

 

“Fine. I’ll eat half a slice.” Smirking, Arthur crosses his arms. He can handle half a slice, and if Alfred’s worried he’ll binge, then he won’t have to eat a lot.

 

“Uh, no. You’re eating at least two slices. As far as I know you haven’t eaten in at least 24 hours, probably more.” Alfred is frowning still, but at least he’s facing Arthur. Swallowing with his fresh bout of nerves, Arthur dodges around the idea of pizza in his mind. Specifically, he pointedly ignores the bit of him that says two slices sounds really good. Two slices does not sound good. Getting Alfred to leave him alone, however, does sound good. 

 

“Fine. Two slices.” Arthur watches as Alfred’s face breaks into another stupid grin. 

  
“Great! C’mon, I’ll eat at the same time so you feel less awkward! Although, the pizza’s kinda lukewarm at this point. I’ll go heat it up.” Arthur watches with a small smile as Alfred dashes over to the microwave excitedly. What did Arthur do to deserve someone like him? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor Alfred.
> 
> (also, if anyone would be interested in betaing for me, that's a thing that I probably need seeing as I'm always writing this fic at like 2 in the morning or when I'm high off my ass on allergy meds)


	6. Post pizza suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pizza is Arthur's enemy; Alfred is Arthur's friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man this one is actually shorter than the last one but im like 99% it's out faster so??? i guess that's how that works
> 
> enjoy

Arthur wipes pizza grease off of his lips, his insides curling angrily at the sensation of a full stomach. How long had it been anyways, since he last had a full meal? It had been a while since his last binge. Arthur eyes Alfred warily as the blond dutifully munches his way through his sixth slice of pizza, and the last one of the box. Alfred hasn’t slowed in the slightest since his first slice, choosing to inhale his food rather than eat it. A small bit of disgust rises up in Arthur, but the envy is still much more tangible. Arthur sighs, and stands up with his plate. He can feel Alfred’s eyes on him as he sets his dish in the sink and stretches, a yawn escaping his lips. Turning back to face his friend, he sees that Alfred has finished that last slice. 

 

“I’m going to the loo. We can play more Pokemon or something when I get back.” Arthur starts to walk towards his restroom, but an alarmed shout from Alfred stops him.

 

“Hey, no you don’t!” Alfred must have jumped up awfully quickly because his hand is on Arthur’s shoulder all of the sudden. “I know what you’re planning, and I’m not about to let it happen.” Arthur turns to face Alfred and fixes his best scowl onto his face.

 

“I  _ told  _ you; I’m not a bloody bulimic. You can watch me piss if you’d like, but I’m not going to stick my hand down my throat if that’s your concern.” Arthur almost misses the way Alfred’s face falls into a grimace, almost misses the way his friend tenses up. “What’s wrong with you anyways? You act like I’m insulting you personally.”

 

“What? No! I’m just worried about you.” Arthur can tell Alfred is lying, at least partially, but drops it anyways. Who cares about why Alfred’s acting like a kicked puppy. Alright, Arthur  _ does  _ care, but at the moment he cares more about emptying his bladder and ignoring the hot, melty venom boiling in his belly. However, as he resumes his (fairly brief) walk to his bathroom, he hears footsteps behind him. 

 

“You’re seriously going to watch me use the bathroom, aren’t you.” It does not come out as a question.

 

“No, but I’ll be right there. And I’ll break down the door if you run the tap while you’re peeing or if I hear you throwing up. I know all of the tricks, so don’t try and get away with it.” Arthur raises an eyebrow skeptically at Alfred’s authoritative tone.

 

“What, did you read the wikipedia article on eating disorders?” Arthur wonders if Alfred is frowning again, but he resists the urge to turn around. 

 

“Uh, no. Also, I gotta pee too, so imma go after you.” Alfred sounds almost apologetic. If Arthur cared- which he doesn’t- he would wonder why Alfred was acting so out of character. He isn’t. At least that’s what he’s telling himself. 

 

“Alright, whatever. And because I’m not a  _ creep, _ I’m not going to wait around to snoop on your bathroom habits.” 

 

“Fine by me.” By this point, they’re at the bathroom, with Arthur staring firmly at the door, and Alfred making no sound behind him. Arthur barely manages to avoid looking at his friend, shutting the door behind him soundly as he enters the bathroom. “Hey, don’t lock it.” Arthur doesn’t reply to Alfred’s (somewhat concerned, sounds that way at least) request, but he doesn’t lock the door either. He does his business, washes his hands, and exits the bathroom quickly, the picture of both efficiency and annoyance. 

 

“See? I told you I’m not the puking type.” Arthur glares at Alfred, who looks somewhat normal, if lacking his normal smile. 

 

“Sorry, man. I just wanted to make sure.” Alfred doesn’t really sound as enthusiastic as usual, but Arthur brushes it off as he walks past his friend and back into the living room, plopping down on the couch and sighing. At least he’d only had two slices. It could have been far, far worse. 

 

Oh, who is he kidding? Arthur feels like a piece of crap. Not only did he eat, but he gave away his biggest secret, made his best friend upset, and probably ruined his chances of ever getting to an acceptable weight. He can feel his skin crawling, his fat bubbling and growing inside of him, roiling with renewed strength. Why did he let Alfred order pizza? Why had he been such a jerk? Arthur draws his knees up to his chest and takes in a shuddering breath. Feeling tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, he tries to breathe calmly. He’s not going to cry again; he can’t. There’s no way he’s going to allow himself that again. Only thin people, only people with self control, are allowed to cry. Fatties like Arthur have to shut up and deal with it. 

 

Arthur feels the warmth of a tear rolling down his cheek, a burningly hot reminder of his weakness. He curls up further on himself and feels a whimper burst out of his throat, making a noise that is far too loud in the empty room. It’s the second time today that he’s cried, and it’s all for a stupid pizza. Fucking pizza. PIzza is  _ never  _ a good idea. Arthur vows to never eat it again, not ever. Pizza is making him cry, making him fat, making Alfred upset. Realizing that Alfred’s still in the bathroom, Arthur curls in on himself further. He doesn’t want Alfred to see him cry again, but a part of him- the same part of him that is glad Alfred knows- is praying for his friend to hurry up. God, he’s so pitiful, leeching off of Alfred like this. Alfred didn’t sign up for this, probably wants out. Arthur never should have let him find out. 

 

And he can’t let him find Arthur crying again. Rubbing furiously at his wet eyes, Arthur forces himself to breathe deeply. He has to calm down, has to look normal. He can’t let Alfred see him crying  _ again _ .

 

As if on cue, the bathroom door opens and Alfred steps out. Arthur stares at him, wide-eyed, even though his friend is looking at the floor. Alfred’s eyes are raw, rimmed with red, and his face looks damp with what must be tears. His gaze shifts from the floor onto Arthur’s face, and surprise flashes across his features, only to be followed by concern.

 

“Have you been crying?” They both say it at the same time, and under different circumstances, Arthur would have laughed. Instead, he waits, staring firmly at Alfred to let him know that he has no intention of answering first.

 

“Uh, I mean, sort of?” Alfred looks like he feels guilty, but Arthur ignores that.

 

“Why?” Arthur can hear his own voice waver a tiny bit, and hopes that Alfred didn’t notice.

 

“Maybe because my best friend is having a really hard time and I just want to help but I’m not sure he wants my help and I just wish I had some kind of magic fix-it button or something and this is all really frustrating?” Alfred’s words come out in a huge rush, and Arthur blinks dumbly, taking a moment to process everything. 

 

“Oh.” Arthur replies, very intelligently, and Alfred gives him a weak smile. 

 

“It’s okay though. We’re going to work through this, and even if it doesn’t magically poof itself better, it’ll suck a whole lot less.” Arthur watches as Alfred’s lips twist into a wild, slightly manic grin, and he finds himself smiling too. He slides off of the couch and ignores his friend’s startled expression as he throws his arms around his friend.

  
“I do hope you’re right.” Arthur’s voice lacks any of his normal bite, and he smiles into Alfred’s shoulder. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll try not to make you cry again.” He hears Alfred laugh, relief evident in the American’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooray for updates! and also, i kinda know where the plot is going. sort of.


	7. Bidoofus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is definitely better at pokemon than Alfred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehuehuheueh chapter is oUT and not super short

 

“Aw c’mon man, it’ll be fun!” Alfred sounds a good deal like a small child, and Arthur is not amused. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs.

 

“My idea of ‘fun’ does not involve inviting a bunch of hooligans over to my flat and hoping for the best.” Arthur tries valiantly to ignore the way Alfred groans and throws his DS down.

 

“Dude! It’s not like they’d break anything!” Alfred pauses, and Arthur is about to reply when he sees Alfred smile wickedly. “And we could all just go to my place! That way you don’t have to worry about them messing anything up.” Arthur sighs with extra emphasis to help convey his disapproval.

 

“I have classes in the morning monday, and then work. I’ll be exhausted.” Arthur knows he’s right; classes never fail to tire him out, and work will only make it worse. Plus, it’s been a long time since he’s hung out with any significant number of people, and he’s not quite sure if he’s up for that kind of socialization. Human interaction is stressful at best, and stress makes him mess up, makes him eat. And even though he’s somewhat agreed to Alfred’s help, he still doesn’t want to get fat from binging. 

 

“Alright, then what if I just invite one or two people?” Alfred scoots closer to Arthur, nudging him with his shoulder and grinning like a kid. “And not Gil either, I promise!” Arthur sighs, not wanting to say yes, but perfectly aware that Alfred will never give up. 

 

“Fine. Just one person.” Alfred pumps his fists in the air with glee, whispering a quiet ‘yes’. Arthur just shakes his head, hiding the small smile that’s crept over his lips.

 

“So then, I’ll leave after dinner tomorrow, and I’ll come over with food and people at like, six-ish monday?” Arthur nods his confirmation, and he hears his couch groan in protest as Alfred does a small victory dance in his seat. He’s  _ tempted  _ to protest the food, but knows better. Alfred will find some way to talk him into it, and it’ll probably spark an argument at best and a tearful Alfred at worst. Arthur doesn’t really want to make his friend cry again, even if he has no intention of actually eating whatever fast food or take away he’ll bring. Neither of them are known for their cooking, and Alfred wouldn’t have time to cook anyways, so “food” would entail a greasy, fried mess that would coat Arthur’s veins with plaque and melt his intestines. Even if he wasn’t trying to lose weight, Arthur wouldn't put that in his body. For his health, and out of self respect.

 

“Oh my god  _ dude _ I found a shiny!” Arthur jerks a little, surprised by Alfred’s outburst. He leans over to see that Alfred has indeed found a shiny pokemon. He can’t help but laugh, a wide grin on his face.

 

“Of all the pokemon, you get a shiny  _ bidoof?! _ ” Arthur laughs harder when Alfred punches his arm and starts to giggle as well. 

 

“Dude, I’m going to cherish this bidoof! He’s gonna be my number one pokemon, and I’m gonna use him to beat the elite four. Just you watch!” Arthur outright cackles, shaking his head. His friends are  _ hilarious _ . 

 

“Have fun with that. I’ll just win whenever we do end up battling!” Alfred giggle and punches him again, shaking his head.

 

“No man! Bidoofus is gonna wreck all of your wimpy pokemon!” Arthur clutches his sides as he laughs again, bent over and tearful from mirth.

 

“You named it Bidoofus?!” Arthur leans against Alfred and stares at his game, confirming that, yes, he did. 

 

“So? That’s not a bad name! It’s a pun!” Arthur can hear the laughter in Alfred’s voice, and he feels it bubble up in the taller man’s chest. 

 

“Just because it’s a pun does  _ not  _ make it a good name.” He glances up at Alfred from his (relatively awkward) position again his friend and shifts, pulling himself entirely into Alfred’s lap. 

 

“Hey, what are you-” Arthur interrupts Alfred.

 

“I’m getting cozy. How else am I to watch the adventures of Bidoofus and Wanker?” Alfred laughs, and Arthur finds himself quite comfortable, sitting on Alfred’s crossed legs sideways so that his head rests on Alfred’s shoulder and the edge of the armrest. His feet dangle out onto the other side of the couch, and he’s just feeling at home when Alfred’s hand ruffles his hair. “Hey!”

 

“Aww, you’re cute when you’re like this. And I didn’t name my dude Wanker!” Arthur laughs and sets his own game down, choosing instead to watch Alfred navigate his game. He can feel each one of Alfred’s breaths as he lays against him, can just  _ barely  _ feel his heartbeat through his chest. Warmth seeps through Alfred’s shirt on onto Arthur’s cool skin, and he finds himself relaxing. It’s not until Alfred starts to run his fingers gently through Arthur’s hair though, that Arthur lets his eyes slide shut. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, dude, wake up.” Arthur groans and swats at the air in front of him, lightly hitting someone’s arm. He feels something shift beneath him, then fingers carding gently through his hair. “Dude. I ordered food and it’s gonna be here any minute. I gotta get up.” Arthur, however, does not want to oblige his request. In fact, Arthur would much prefer to lie here forever, thank you. Instead of saying this, Arthur lets out an eloquent groan. His friend sighs beneath him and stops combing through his hair. 

 

“Not getting up.” Arthur is rather proud of himself for getting that out. He is  _ very  _ sleepy, very warm, and very comfortable. Talking is a feat worthy of a reward. 

 

“Dude, I love you, but if you don’t move, I’m gonna have to pick you up.” Arthur puts a modest effort into processing these words, but they still just slip over him. He’s not sure exactly what importance that has on his current situation, but he doesn’t care, instead electing to shift, burrowing his head further into a warm shoulder. He feels Alfred sigh beneath him and feels him shift, moving one arm under his knees and the other across his shoulders, somewhat disrupting Arthur’s comfortable position. He grunts and shakes his head because actually, he’d like to keep sleeping. 

 

“Alright, here we go.” And with that, Arthur is lifted up into the air bridal style, his head still resting on Alfred’s shoulder. He opens his eyes and frowns. Where is Alfred taking him? 

 

He gets his answer relatively quickly, because Alfred simply walks down the hallway and nudges Arthur’s bedroom open with his foot, carrying his sleepy companion inside. Arthur groans in protest as Alfred sets him down on the bed, missing his warmth. Alfred tucking the blanket around him does nothing to compensate, so he reaches out and grabs Alfred’s arm. Alfred just smiles at him.

 

“You’ve been asleep for hours man, and you’re gonna have to wake up to eat anyways. I ordered food, remember?” Arthur forces himself to actually think about that, stretching and yawning as he sits up. “Oh,  _ now _ you’re up? After I carry you in here?” Alfred chuckles and shakes his head. 

 

“You make a good pillow.” Arthur still feels pretty tired, but he gets out of the bed regardless. 

 

“Do I?” Alfred looks somewhat surprised, and Arthur just laughs.

 

“Would I have slept on you if you weren’t?” Alfred starts to laugh as well, but a knock on the door interrupts him.

 

“Oh, there’s the food.” Arthur watches with interest as Alfred hurries out of the bedroom, and he elects to follow him after a moment of internal debate. He walks into the living room and sees Alfred paying a girl in a uniform that is decidedly not a Domino’s uniform.

 

“What did you get?” Arthur peers curiously at the styrofoam containers, as is he could see through if he tried hard enough.

 

“Sandwiches. Figured you’d be tired of pizza.” Alfred sets the boxes down on the table and turns to Arthur, crossing his arms. “I got you a chicken salad sandwich and fruit since I doubt you’ll willingly eat fries. But the deal is you gotta eat  _ all  _ of it, okay?” Alfred is giving Arthur a hard stare, and Arthur swallows nervously.

 

“Uh, sure. What did you get?” Arthur figures that if he gets the subject off of himself, Alfred will stop glaring at him.

 

“A philly cheesesteak and fries. But dude, I’m serious. You’re gonna eat three meals a day, and it’s not going to hurt you, I promise.” Arthur nods and glances at the styrofoam with no small amount of trepidation. Hopefully his sandwich isn’t  _ too  _ big. 

 

As if reading his mind, Alfred opens the first box. A normal sized, neat-looking sandwich is sitting innocently inside. The bread looks like it might be homemade, with oats and grains visible, and it’s filled with a reasonable amount of chicken salad, some bright red tomatoes, and bright green lettuce. There’s a small container next to it, and Arthur reaches over to open it, eyeing the grapes and strawberries inside dubiously. To his left, Alfred opens his box, revealing a very cheesy sandwich and a good amount of chips, still hot from frying.

 

“This place is really good, and I’ve had basically their whole menu, so I figured it’d be a good choice. Plus, delivery is nice.” Arthur glances to his friend, who’s smiling despite the obvious concern on his face. “You do know that the food isn’t going to bite you, right? It’s just food. One meal isn’t going to make you fat.”

 

“No, but two might.” Arthur feels weak, and he isn't sure why. It's just food, and he eats far more than this on binges anyways, so  _ why is this so scary? _

 

“It won't. Think about it logically, okay? You've only had two pieces of pizza, which is like 500 calories, right? The sandwich is probably like 350 maximum, and the fruit’s like 100. So that's 950 calories, which will make you lose weight, not gain. There's nothing to be afraid of.” Alfred gives Arthur a reassuring smile. 

 

“Why do you know how many calories is in all of those foods?” Arthur fixes Alfred with a level stare. Even  _ Arthur _ doesn't have the calories of some foods memorized, and he's thinking about it nonstop. 

 

“I told you, I've got a friend with an eating disorder. I've done some research.” Arthur is skeptical, but drops the subject. He turns his attention to his sandwich and sighs.

  
“Let’s get this over with.” Arthur grabs the sandwich and takes a deep breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you like the fluff. because i was dying when i wrote that


	8. Sleepy Mornings and Grocery Stores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letting Alfred figure things out may have been a bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this took so long! My keyboard broke and I just got a new one yesterday. To make up for the wait, this chapter's a bit longer!

Arthur blinks blearily in the morning light, trying to figure out where is and what he’s doing. It’s morning, and he can tell by the feeling of warmth in his stomach that he’s eaten. It takes less than a second for him to remember- the sandwich. He’d eaten the sandwich, not even felt guilty, and stayed up late yet again playing videogames and watching stupid American movies with Alfred- who’s currently curled up beside him. Arthur turns over to look at his friend and finds himself smiling at the relaxed expression on the American’s face. It’s not often that Arthur can just  _ stare _ at Alfred without fear of seeming creepy, so he savors the moment, examining each and every feature of his friend’s face. The sharp turn of his jaw, his long golden eyelashes, the faint smattering of freckles along his nose, rendered nearly invisible by his tan. 

 

Arthur shifts quietly to free one of his arms, and, without thinking, he lays his hand gently on Alfred’s honey blonde hair. It’s softer than he expected, if a touch greasy, and he gently cards his fingers through it, enjoying the warmth his friend gives off. It’s moments like this that make him feel warm and fuzzy inside- soft and happy despite how much he hates himself. Alfred smiles in his sleep, unconsciously burrowing closer to Arthur and the Brit chuckles softly. However, it must not have been soft enough; Alfred groans and opens one eye sleepily.

 

“It’s too early...” Arthur laughs again and pats his friend on his head. Poor sleepy Alfred. “What time is it? Are we cuddling?” Arthur glances to the clock and answers.

 

“It’s ten, and I think we’re cuddling, yes.” This was not exactly a rare occurrence. For two completely straight men, Alfred and Arthur cuddled or slept in the same bed an awful lot, and honestly Arthur doesn’t mind. Alfred is warm, and they’ve known each other forever. 

 

“Ugh, we should probably get up.” Alfred does not sound particularly keen on getting up, despite his words. Still, he peels himself out of bed, much to Arthur’s disappointment. If they kept sleeping, then everything would be warm and nice and Arthur wouldn’t have to eat. A foolproof plan.

 

Arthur sighs and sits up, watching Alfred stretch and yawn.  The American is wearing a long sleeved shirt in a bright blue, and Arthur totally does not eye the way it rides up to show a strip of his skin as he stretches.

 

“Don’t you normally sleep shirtless?” Arthur asks before he can stop himself, and he’s a little surprised to see Alfred tense up.

 

“How would you know? We haven’t hung out in forever.” Alfred’s tone is clipped and closed off.

 

“Calm down, I was just asking.” Arthur doesn’t understand why Alfred’s making such a big deal out of this. It was just a simple question. 

 

“Whatever. Anyways, today we’re going to go to the store and get you some food. There’s no way you can get better if you don’t have any food in your house.” Alfred sounds happy(ish) again, but Arthur is not pleased with this suggestion.

 

“No, I have plenty of food.” Alfred turns around and frowns at him.

 

“Uh, dude, you’ve only got applesauce. That’s 100 calories a cup, and basically all carbs, so you don’t exactly have the entire food pyramid.” Alfred is right, and Arthur knows it. But if he gets something else, it’ll be there and he’ll binge on it. And then he’ll be fat again. 

 

“What if I mess up? I can’t have a fully stocked fridge.” Arthur just says it, ignoring every part of him screaming not to be such a faker. Arthur is fake fake fake because a  _ real  _ anoretic wouldn’t have any trouble with a fridge full of food. Arthur is stupid and should keep his lying mouth shut. Arthur is not going to go to the store no matter what. Arthur is not going to eat. 

 

“Hey, dude, it’ll be okay. You’re not going to mess up bad enough to magically go from nearly underweight to fat. If it makes you feel better, we can just get things like vegetables and raw meat. Stuff you can’t eat on a whim, that you have to cook.” Arthur hadn’t noticed when Alfred had crouched down in front of him, but he must have because now he’s got his hands on Arthur’s shoulder and  _ oh my god Arthur’s crying again isn’t he?  _

 

“I’m such a baby.” He’s pathetic. Arthur can’t believe that he’s crying  _ again.  _ If he was Alfred, he wouldn’t put up with this shit.

 

“No, you’re not. Even if you were, I wouldn’t mind. Now, let’s get dressed and head out before it gets too crowded.” Alfred is smiling, and Arthur knows it’s for his benefit. Sighing in resignation, Arthur nods and stands up, moving to his dresser to search for clean clothes. He’s rummaging through his wide assortment of sweaters and button downs when he hears the bathroom door close in the hallway. He shoots a glance around his room and is surprised to find that Alfred’s gone. It’s strange; Alfred usually has no qualms about changing in front of him. 

 

Nevermind Alfred being weird, he needs to get dressed. Arthur picks out a pair of jeans, a white collared shirt and a green sweater vest. He strips and then puts it on quickly to avoid the chill in the air. Frowning, he realizes that his jeans are slipping down his hips. He sighs and grabs a belt. It could be worse though; it could be too small. At least this way he knows beyond a doubt that he’s losing weight and not getting fat again, although if Alfred has his way, this won’t last long.

 

“Hey, you ready?” Speak of the devil. Alfred walks into Arthur’s room in a long sleeved sweater and clean pants, holding his keys and grinning like an idiot. 

 

“I suppose.” Arthur scowls at his friend’s barely concealed laugh.

 

“Alright then, let’s go!” Alfred turns and walks out the door, and Arthur follows him reluctantly. The grocery store sounds like a  _ really  _ bad idea, and Arthur doesn’t think he can handle it. He drags his feet all the way to Alfred’s car, and he stares solemnly out the window as they pull out of the parking lot. It’d been raining, which isn’t unusual in this part of the country and this time of the year, but for some reason Arthur hadn’t been expecting to see the sky heavy with gray clouds and the ground damp with rainwater. He sighs and leans against the cool glass of the window, wishing that he could just be skinny and handsome and talented and  _ everything _ . Instead, he’s none of these things, and he’s getting driven to the store to be forced to eat by his best, and quite possibly only friend. 

 

“I really haven’t talked to anybody in a while, huh.” It’s not a question, and Arthur sees Alfred shoot a quick glance at him before looking back to the road.

 

“Yeah. Everyone’s been kinda worried. We’re not mad at you though, just concerned.” Arthur wonders how Alfred knew that was what he’d been wondering. Although, “mad” wouldn’t have been his word of choice. Still.

 

“Anything interesting happen?” Arthur feels like he’s somewhere very far away, maybe nestling in a dark cloud, waiting to fall out with the rain. He feels like he could just tumble out into the air, fall onto the pavement and then  _ splat _ , Arthur would be back in reality. Or dead. 

 

“Uh, not really... Francis’s been close to failing whatever math class he’s in, and Gil’s failing everything like usual. Oh, Matthew’s started to hang out with us more, come out of his shell. And for some weird reason, he’s invited Ivan to go out and get drinks with us a couple times. I think there’s something going on there.” Arthur snorts.

 

“What, your brother and Ivan? No way.” He’s laughing, and so is Alfred.

 

“No, really! I don’t know how I feel about it. Actually, scratch that, I strongly disapprove.” Arthur only laughs harder, and he’s still laughing when the car pulls into a parking space at the grocery store. 

 

“Matt’s probably just being nice.” Arthur swings his legs out of the car and walks over to Alfred’s side, where he waits as the American takes his time unbuckling and getting out. 

 

“Probably. Still, you remember how awful Ivan was when he and Toris were together. I don’t want that happening to my little brother!” Alfred starts to head into the store, Arthur alongside him.

 

“How is Toris, anyways? You two still getting along fine?” Arthur sees Alfred’s face twitch with what was either amusement, irritation, or something else entirely. 

 

“Yeah, but dude, he keeps the apartment so freaking  _ clean _ . It’s nice but... a little unnerving?” Arthur nods and hums his understanding.

 

“At least it’s cleaner than when you lived alone!” Alfred scowls and him, and Arthur chuckles. 

 

“It wasn’t that bad! But yeah, I’m glad I asked him to room with me. There was no way I would have been able to pay the rent alone for any longer.” Alfred grabs a shopping cart, and Arthur follows him into the store. It’s not the one he usually goes to, but it is a bit larger. Arthur glances around as Alfred leads him to the produce section. There’s lots of fruits and vegetables, of course, but there’s also candy and crisps lining the shelves of the “snack” section. 

 

“So, uh, what do we have to get?” Arthur tries not to sound nervous and fails miserably. 

 

“I was thinking that getting some fruit would be good, if you need something quick in the morning. Vegetables too, for lunch and dinner, and then some frozen dinners or something that you can just throw in the microwave. If you could cook, it’d be a different story.” Arthur tries his best to ignore the remark on his cooking. He really isn’t  _ that  _ bad. He made pancakes just fine, didn’t he? Plus it’s not like he needs to cook- he doesn’t eat, and he doesn't plan to start. He’ll just play along with Alfred’s stupid ideas until the other man was satisfied, and then he’ll go right back to losing weight. He watches skeptically as Alfred puts baby carrots, apples, bananas, celery, and grapes into the shopping cart. He can deal with fruit and vegetables, but if Alfred starts adding anything else...

 

“Alright, so that looks good for produce. Are you okay with dairy?” Alfred’s looking at Arthur with his big blue eyes and big stupid smile, and Arthur has to remind himself to respond.

 

“What?” Good job Arthur. So coherent, so intelligent.

 

“Are you okay with eating dairy? Like, if it’s a fear food for you or something I don’t want to force it on you.” Arthur swallows and becomes incredibly aware of how nervous he is. He doesn't want to tell alfred what he’s afraid of, doesn’t want to talk about food. It would be far better if he was at home, watching dumb TV and talking about pokemon. 

 

“Dairy is okay, but I don’t really like the taste of milk. And no cream. Or cheese.” Arthur feels his cheeks burn and he looks away, ashamed. A grown-ass man, afraid of eating cheese. Pathetic.

 

“Okay then, we can get some yogurt! It makes a really good breakfast, and you can put it in smoothies.” Arthur nods and follows Alfred as he moves the cart forward. Arthur keep his gaze trained on the floor, as if staring at the dirty tile would make the food leap out of the cart and back onto the shelves. However, when he nearly runs into Alfred, he has to pay attention. They’re in the dairy aisle, as promised, standing in front of the yogurt and cold desserts. The colorful, happy packages make Arthur want to throw up. 

 

“So uh, just pick out whatever you want I guess.” Alfred must have sensed Arthur’s reservations about the yogurt, because he hadn’t so much as looked at Arthur in the produce section. Arthur lets his eyes slide from one yogurt package to the next, hoping to see one that looked somewhat healthy. After a moment’s deliberation, he picks up a four pack of vanilla yogurt labelled “Greek 100 Lite” in bright blue, a drawing of a smiling vanilla bean staring into his soul. He drops it into the cart like it’s burning his hand and turns away from the display, staring resolutely at the milk across the aisle. 

 

“Alright, frozen stuff next, and then we can leave. You okay?” Arthur wishes that Alfred hadn’t asked, because now he has to actually respond.

 

“I’m fine.” Arthur realizes how cliche that is, saying he’s fine when he obviously isn’t. Alfred doesn’t comment though, instead pushing the cart into the next aisle. The shelves are behind glass doors, and frost clings hungrily to the back walls of the freezer cabinets. Arthur wishes he was made of frost. Frost doesn’t get fat, and frost is always clean and white and pure. Alfred pulls the cart to a stop in front of generic, “healthy” frozen meals, with everything from pizza to stir-fry. 

 

“Alright, so does any of this look good to you? I don’t want to get something you aren’t going to eat either way.” Arthur glances at Alfred, who’s still smiling, just not as wide. The American looks concerned, his brow wrinkled in the tiniest way. 

 

“No. I don’t want to eat anything with grains in it.” No bread, no pasta, no rice, no corn. Those were the first “rules” Arthur had set for himself, and he isn’t about to break them. 

 

“Cool, cool. How about this? Stir-fried vegetables and chicken, and the package says it’s paleo so that means no grains.” Alfred holds up a package with a colorful photograph of a typical stir-fry, and Arthur nods. The American tosses the box into the cart.

 

“Okay, so we’re getting at least 10 of these. Lunch and dinner for five days, and I’ll cook for you on Saturday. So unless you  _ really _ like stir-fry, you should help me look.” Arthur sighs and forces himself to look at the food. He feels far away, distant, like he doesn’t exist, not really. Still, he picks out a package of steak and potatoes with dead fingers, selects a meatloaf, grabs a turkey and cranberry meal. Alfred is grinning at him still.

 

“Do I have to get more?” The four frozen meals sitting in the cart seem like an awful lot.

 

“Yes, you do. Do you like green beans? There’s another paleo one over here.” Alfred must see Arthur nod, because he grabs the package, along with at least 3 others. “Barbeque chicken, cabbage rolls, and coconut shrimp. Sound good?”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Arthur glances at the packages in the cart. The stir-fry has the lowest calorie count, so he reaches into the freezer and grabs two more of those. 

  
“Looks like we’ve got ten! Time to head home, and then there’s brunch! Don’t think I didn’t notice that we both skipped breakfast.” Alfred flashes Arthur another one of his million-dollar grins, and Arthur just rolls his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support you give me! I see every kudos and reply to every comment and tbh just one kudos makes my whole day the best ever! Also, if I were to write another fic (not to replace this one, I'd post them both), is there anything you guys would like?


	9. Phone calls and goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, Arthur needs to chill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY THIS IS SO SHORT
> 
> I was out of town and then my house flooded! Gosh darn it! I tried to get this out ASAP, but it's mostly filler and super tiny. Sorry!

“Dude, you have to eat it. It's really not that much food, and it's not enough to make you gain weight.” Alfred sounds about as frustrated as Arthur feels. The yogurt and banana sitting in front of him look ridiculously daunting for how little they are. The yogurt is only 100 calories, the banana around 150 (maybe less, but he doesn't want to underestimate and gain weight). 250. Not that much.  

 

“It seems like a lot more than it is.” Arthur is well aware of how wimpy he sounds. A grown ass man, scared by brunch. 

 

“Yeah, which is why you should trust that you're wayyyy over thinking it and just give it a try. You haven't eaten anything all day.” Alfred's smooth voice is reassuring and calm. 

 

“Alright, I'll try.” Arthur grabs the banana and peels one strip of peel off of it with cold, shaky fingers. This is too much; he can't do this. That banana is going to go straight to his gut, and he's never going to be skinny enough to be loved. Arthur is a fatass, Arthur is worthless, and Arthur is worthless. He isn't going to eat because eating makes him fake too. Faker than he already is, at least. Fake, fake, fake. Arthur drops the banana down and runs his hands through his hair, his breaths ragged. No no no no no this isn't okay this-

 

“Shh, it's okay.” Alfred's soft voice and warm grip reminds him that he isn't alone in the room. “You're okay, everything's okay.” Gentle hands pry his fingers from his hair and hold his hands softly. Arthur takes a shuddering breath, reality floating back to him as he feels Alfred rub small circles on the back of Arthur's hands. “It's okay, I promise. You can do this.”

 

Arthur nods and swallows his tears. Carefully, he picks the banana back up and peels it the rest of the way. It's  just fruit. Fruit can't hurt him. He gingerly takes a bite, the sweet taste filling his mouth. It's good. Arthur has always liked bananas. He takes another, bigger bite and swallows, grimacing at the sensation of starch slithering down his throat. Somehow, it's easier to take the next bite, and the next one, and the next. Before he knows it, the banana is gone. 

 

“See? You did it.” Alfred sounds incredibly pleased. Arthur looks over to him and smiles a bit, feeling mildly empowered. He just ate a banana. He did it. 

 

“Now for the yogurt.” He grins at Alfred and opens the container of yogurt with renewed vigor. He's  _ hungry _ . Was he this hungry a second ago? The yogurt doesn't look so big anymore- rather, it looks tiny. Arthur picks up his spoon and takes a big mouthful, barely tasting it before gulping it down and shovelling more into his mouth. He's  _ starving.  _

 

A cool hand on his stops him once again. “Whoa there, slow down. You don't want to make yourself sick, do you?” Arthur glares up at Alfred.

 

“I thought you  _ wanted _ me to eat.” He's irritated. He's eating, so where's the problem?

 

“I do, but eating that fast looks a lot like the start of a binge. Enjoy the food, but don't inhale it.” Alfred is calm, but Arthur can see the discomfort and unease in his friend's voice. He sighs, and resumes eating. This time, he takes his time. The yogurt is sweet, but honestly not his favorite. 

 

“Next time, I'm getting strawberry.” At his comment, Alfred tilts his head back and laughs. 

 

“Of course, whatever you want!”

 

* * *

 

 

“You sure you're gonna be okay?” Alfred is staring at Arthur, looking an awful lot like a sad puppy. 

 

“Yes, I'm certain. I can handle being alone for less than twenty four hours.” Arthur is rather exasperated because they've been standing in the doorway for  _ fifteen minutes.  _

 

“Promise you'll eat breakfast tomorrow? And lunch?” Alfred gives him a hopeful grin and Arthur groans. 

 

“Yes, now just  _ go. _ I do need to go to sleep at some point tonight.” Alfred nods in response and smiles wider, taking a few steps back. 

 

“Alright then, see you tomorrow night!” He waves and Arthur begrudgingly waves back, feeling like Alfred is far too childish for his age. He watches Alfred walk to his car and then shuts the door with a sigh. The two of them had just shared another dinner of delivered sandwiches, and Arthur feels a bit like garbage. Actually, scratch that. Arthur feels a  _ lot  _ like garbage. Either way, there’s not a whole lot he can do about it. A full belly and an empty plate aren’t really reversible, not an hour and a half later. Plus, Arthur wouldn’t purge. He’s not like that.

 

Instead, he settles down on his couch and scrolls lazily through his phone notifications. Nobody had texted him while Alfred was over, not that that’s a huge shock. He’s not really a frequent texter anyways. What does catch his eye, however, is the date. It’s Kiku’s birthday, and while the two aren’t incredibly close, they’re close enough that it would be rude for Arthur not to message him. With an exaggerated sigh, Arthur opens his messages and begins to type.

 

**_Arthur:_ ** _ Happy Birthday, Kiku. _

**_Kiku:_ ** _ Thank you, Kirkland-san.  _

**_Arthur:_ ** _ You’re welcome. You really don’t need to use honorifics with me. Just call me Arthur.  _

**_Kiku:_ ** _ I will do that then. How has your day been? _

**_Arthur:_ ** _ It’s been good. Alfred has been over all weekend, and he just left. _

**_Kiku:_ ** _ Oh? Is he doing okay? _

**_Arthur:_ ** _ Yes? Why wouldn’t he be?? _

**_Kiku:_ ** _ My apologies, it is not my place to say any more. _

**_Arthur:_ ** _ You can be incredibly confusing over text. _

**_Kiku:_ ** _ Yes, you tell me often. _

**_Arthur:_ ** _ Alright, I have to do homework. Talk to you later. _

**_Kiku:_ ** _ Goodbye, Arthur. _

 

Arthur does not have to do homework, but messaging Kiku accomplished nothing other than  _ confusing the ever-loving shit out of him.  _ Why did he ask if Alfred was okay? Alfred’s  _ always  _ okay. He always knows what to do next, and when he falters he gets right back up. But... Kiku  _ had  _ been spending more time with Alfred lately than Arthur. What if he’d missed something? What if something’s wrong with Alfred? Arthur runs through the possibilities in his head. Maybe Alfred’s sick? No, he seemed fine earlier. Arthur sighs. There’s no way for him to figure this out on his own, and worrying over it will do him no good. Tomorrow, when Alfred comes back over with his “small” group, Arthur will ask him if everything’s okay, tell him Kiku seemed worried. And then Alfred will smile his big, cheesy grin and say something like “Dude, everything’s groovy!” and Arthur will feel stupid. Yes, that’s exactly what will happen, Arthur is sure of it. 

 

Arthur sighs and rubs between his eyes. This weekend has been... eventful, that’s for sure. 


	10. party time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur cannot believe he let Alfred invite people over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooooo chapter 10 is here!

Arthur steps inside the door of his flat, shutting it behind him and setting his bag down with a sigh. Classes are stressful, even more so than work. At the very least, he doesn’t have both work  _ and  _ school today. Arthur stretches and yawns as he walks into his living room, plopping down on his couch with a sigh. He’s not dizzy today, which is a bit of a change, although he guesses he owes that to the fruit and yogurt he had for lunch, and the carrots he had for breakfast. Hopefully, the small meals wouldn’t make him gain any weight. He knows exactly how many calories he’s had so far today- 260- and with any luck he should be able to get by with less than 600 whenever Alfred comes over. 860 isn’t exactly great, but it’s definitely not a bad day by any means. 

 

Now that Arthur thinks about it, Alfred didn’t say what time he’s coming over. Arthur groans and throws his head back, staring grumpily at the ceiling. Why does he let Alfred do things, anyway? Now he’s going to have to sit here and wait all evening, not knowing-

 

A knock on his door interrupts Arthur’s train of thought. He sighs and stands up, half relieved and half annoyed that his friends are already here. Well, Alfred’s friends. Arthur still hasn’t the faintest idea who Alfred brought with him. He opens the door, and glances at who’s waiting in front of him. Alfred, all smiles and blue eyes, mostly blocks his view, but he can still see Kiku and... is that Francis?!

 

“You brought the frog?!” Arthur puts a hand on his hip and glares at Alfred. “Really?” Arthur tries his best to burn a hole through Alfred, but the American just laughs.

 

“Hey, I said I wouldn’t bring Gilbert, but I didn’t say anything about Francis! Plus, he’s good about, you know, that  _ thing _ . Which I haven’t told them about.” Alfred does look somewhat sheepish, and Arthur only  _ just  _ resists his urge to punch the other man.

 

“It is true! Alfred has not told us anything, which is incredibly frustrating! You will share, oui?” Francis’s  _ obnoxious  _ voice is what’s incredibly frustrating.

 

“I am not sharing  _ anything. _ ” Arthur crosses his arms in front of his chest.

 

“C’mon dude! It’ll help if more people know! Plus, like, Keeks and Francis are totally cool.” Alfred has his best puppy-dog eyes on, and Arthur shifts uneasily. No, he can’t give in! He’s too strong to be won over by a cute face! But... Alfred might be right...

 

“What makes you think this’ll help me?” Arthur is too strong for Alfred. He totally didn’t just shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see Alfred’s pleading look. Totally.

 

“Francis helped my, uh, friend. And Kiku is really smart!” Alfred sounds so earnest, so eager.

 

“Fine, but you’re telling them. I’m not saying anything.” A small part of Arthur hopes that this will deter Alfred’s quest to “help” him. Maybe if he has to do unpleasant things, he’ll give it up and let Arthur lose this damn weight?

 

“Sure, if that makes it easier on you! C’mon guys, let’s sit on the couch, make a feelings circle!” With that, Arthur opens his eyes again, just in time to see Alfred leading Francis and Kiku over to his couch. The piece of furniture is big enough for all of them, and would be more comfortable than standing, so maybe Alfred knows what he’s doing after all. Or he’s just good at acting like it. Arthur follows them with a sigh, taking his seat at the far right end of the couch, beside Alfred. He pointedly looks at the floor, as if not meeting his friends’ eyes will make them disappear. 

 

“What is it you wish to tell us, Alfred-kun?” Kiku sounds... polite, as usual, but also hesitant. Like he doesn’t want to force anything. 

 

“Okay, so, y’all noticed that Arthur’s been kinda dodgy lately?” Nobody replies to Alfred, so Arthur can only assume they nodded. “And that he’s lost weight?” Another silence. They probably didn’t nod there. Arthur’s still pretty fat, so there’s no way either of them would have noticed anything. 

 

“Mon ami, are you implying...?” Francis’s accent fails to cover the concern in his voice. No no no, Arthur doesn’t deserve that concern! He glances up at the damn frenchman, and sees a crease between those (plucked, pretentious) brows, a frown on those lips. Why does he care? Arthur’s not sick! Arthur’s got a long way to go before this matters!

 

“Yeah... Artie hasn’t been eating. I came over here, and I noticed that he was kinda quiet, and that he wasn’t eating any of the snack I brought over. Then, I went to his fridge, and there was nothing but applesauce, so I tried to get him to eat some pizza, and yeah...” Alfred pauses for a moment, and Arthur can see his lips twitch. When he speaks again, his voice is smaller. “It was really hard for him. I think he’s got an eating disorder.” Arthur frowns. No, he does not!

 

“I do not have an eating disorder! I’m just... dieting!” Clearly, that was not the right thing to say, because now the three of them are staring at him, and Arthur can see tears welling up under Francis’s eyes.

 

“Arthur... I ‘ave a strong suspicion that Alfred is right ‘ere. I, too, ‘ave been worrying about you.” Francis’s accent has always been thicker when he’s upset... Arthur drops his gaze guiltily to the floor. Why do they all care so much? It’s not like Arthur’s earned this kindness! This is why he’s been pushing them away! Arthur doesn’t know what to say, and clearly neither does anyone else, because the silence is resounding. Arthur puts his face in his hand. Why does nothing ever turn out well? Why does he bother? Everything was good, but now people know and everything is all weird. 

 

“Kir- Arthur-kun.” Kiku’s quiet, more so than usual. Arthur looks over to him and sees a slight frown on his face. “I know this must be difficult for you to be open about, but the three of us are here to help.” Arthur blinks dumbly. He... Doesn't know what to say. 

“Yeah, exactly! We’re gonna help you through this!” Alfred is nodding so rapidly that Arthur is mildly concerned his head may fly off. Arthur swallows and takes a deep breath. 

 

“Thank you, but I... I am not sure I  _ want  _ to stop this.” He feels overly aware of the shakiness of his voice, the gazes of his friends, the tears gathering in his eyes. But he can’t lie to them, not now. Arthur does not want to stop; he’s been doing so well. Not much longer and he’ll be where he wants to be, so he can’t quit now!

 

“We understand that.” Francis sounds a lot calmer now, and when Arthur looks at him, he sees that he is smiling. “But we’re not about to let you keep hurting yourself like this. Kiku and I helped when-” 

 

“Yeah, they helped when my friend was having a problem! They’re really awesome, I promise!” Alfred interrupts Francis, and he’s talking awfully fast. Arthur narrows his eyes. Kiku looks confused, while Francis looks frustrated, but definitely not surprised. 

 

“Alfred, who exactly is this “friend” of yours you keep going on about?” Arthur puts his best angry glare on Alfred, hoping that if he stares at him hard enough the answers will magically appear in his head. 

 

“I- It’s- I can’t-” Alfred puts his head in his hands and takes a breath that Arthur can hear quite clearly from beside him. “I can’t tell you right now.” Arthur stands up, angrily crossing his arms in front of his chest.

 

“What do you mean you can’t tell me?! You just revealed a bloody huge secret to two other people, and you’re planning on forcing me to change the way I live, and you can’t tell me?!” Arthur turns to storm away, but stops when he feels a hand grab his. He whips around, surprised to see Alfred’s tear-stained face right next to his. He vaguely notes that Francis and Kiku have stood up too, both of them looking a good bit startled. 

 

“Artie.” Alfred’s voice is small. Why is he being so quiet? “It’s me. I’m the friend.” Arthur stands there dumbly for a second before pulling Alfred into a tight hug. Now, it seems obvious. Why else would Alfred have been so dodgy?

 

“Sorry, Alfred.” Arthur rubs the other man’s back as Alfred presses his face into the brit’s shoulder. He’s not sobbing per say, but he’s gripping tight and Arthur can feel tears soaking into his shirt. It feels like only a second before Alfred pulls back, a watery smile on his face, tear tracks under bright blue eyes. 

 

“It’s okay Arthur. I should have told you right away.” Arthur just smiles back at him, not sure what to do. 

 

“So, it seems like we’ve got our work cut out for us, oui? I thought you ‘ad told him, Alfred!” Francis seems to know the best times to intervene. Arthur looks at him and sees a kind smile. 

  
“Sorry, I was gonna, but I didn’t know how. Everyone knows now though, so it’s all good!” Alfred grins wider, and Arthur finds his smile grow wider as well. This may not be such a bad thing, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I really appreciate y'all's support, and your feedback makes my day! Also, if any of you have any fic suggestions, just PM me, cause I have no life and I'd like to write some oneshots but idk what to write about ya feel


	11. soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is not in the mood for Francis's antics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's all pretend this chapter isn't filler

Arthur glares dubiously at the soup bubbling on the stove, visible chunks of meat and vegetables shifting at Francis stirs it. 

 

“Are you  _ certain  _ that it’s healthy? No cream in it, right?” Arthur knows that he’s asked this at least 4 times already, but he’s concerned! For all he knows, the frog whipped up the broth with 4 sticks of butter in his home and then brought it here and lied about it being healthy! And he can  _ clearly  _ see little bits of pasta- orzo? arzo?- floating in it, so it’s not like it’ll be low calorie.

 

“I am certain. I told you, it is just broth, italian sausage, spinach, carrots, and orzo. The broth looks clear, oui? There is no cream in it.” Francis is being quite patient with Arthur, who has not left the kitchen since he pulled out the container of soup. But, if he leaves, Francis could add something! Plus, it smells good. 

 

“Do I have to eat the orzo?” Arthur has to get what he can. Otherwise, they might coax enough food into him that he’ll gain weight, and that  _ can’t  _ happen. 

 

“Yes. Both you and Alfred will have one bowl, and you will eat all of it. Even the orzo. Especially the orzo.” Francis doesn’t even look at Arthur. “You need this nutrition. I suspect you ‘ave not had an awful lot to eat today, non?” Arthur huffs indignantly.

 

“I’ll have you know I had both breakfast  _ and  _ lunch!” Two full meals! As if Arthur needs a third!

 

“That is good, but you should have dinner as well. I doubt you will gain weight from three light meals, so try and enjoy my cooking, s'il vous plaît?” Francis is doing an awfully good job of being patient, but Arthur is still annoyed.

 

“You know, talking in French doesn’t make you sound fancy, it makes you sound daft. And why is a Frenchman making  _ italian  _ wedding soup?” At this, Francis shakes his head. Finally, Arthur is getting somewhere! He can just barely make out the scowl forming on Francis’s stupid french face!

 

“It is food, I am a chef, so I make it. Anyway, it is ready. Would you go fetch Alfred and Kiku?” Francis didn’t even argue back! Slightly disappointed, Arthur stalks out of the kitchen area and into the living room. Francis  _ could  _ have just called for Kiku and Alfred, but Arthur just sighs before talking to the two on the couch. 

 

“Food is ready.” Arthur snorts at the way Alfred leaps out of his seat eagerly, while Kiku takes his time and sets his DS down carefully before getting up and stretching. 

 

“Awesome! Francis is a really good cook!” Alfred jumps up and down like an excited puppy, and Arthur rolls his eyes. 

 

“Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.” He turns to walk into the kitchen, only to be face to face with Francis. The frenchman holds four bowls of soup, one in each hand and two balanced carefully between his elbow and torso. Arthur blinks with surprise. “You look like a fancy waiter.” Arthur could smack himself for saying that out loud; it’s nearly a  _ compliment.  _

 

“Oui, I do work in a restaurant...” Francis has one brow raised, and Arthur stands there dumbly. “Excuse me, I was going to take these to the coffee table.” Arthur flushes in embarrassment and steps aside. Damn frog! Arthur watches as Francis carefully sets all four bowls down on the table, not a single drop of soup spilling. 

 

“Uh, I’ll go and fetch some silverware...” Arthur, feeling awkward, walks back into his little kitchen and pulls open a drawer, gather four spoons for him and his friends. He’s halfway tempted to not even get himself a spoon, but somehow he doubts he’ll be able to get away without eating. Holding the spoons in one hand (that definitely isn’t sweating from his nerves, because he definitely isn’t nervous), Arthur walks into the living room. The other three have already sat down, with Kiku at one end of the couch, then Francis and finally Alfred. There’s a spot for Arthur right between the end of the couch closest to him and Alfred, and, with a sigh, the englishman takes his seat. He notices that nobody’s started eating yet, probably due to the lack of utensils, but Alfred is eyeing his soup hungrily. Arthur wordlessly hands out the silverware, receiving a mumbled thanks from Kiku. Alfred immediately digs in, but Arthur pauses. How caloric is italian wedding soup anyway?

 

“Arthur.” Francis must have noticed Arthur’s hesitation. “Please, go ahead and try some. It’s good, I promise.” Arthur swallows nervously and brings a spoonful of broth to his lips. Here goes nothing. The broth  _ is  _ good, seasoned just right and warm but not burning. Arthur takes another spoonful and looks at Francis with a small smile. 

 

“It is good. Thank you for bringing it over.” Arthur hopes that Francis can tell he’s thanking him for more than just food. 

 

“You’re welcome, mon ami. I am always glad to help.” Francis smiles back at Arthur, and flips his hair over his shoulder in a way that makes Arthur think he did it without realizing. Even so, Arthur turns back to his soup with renewed strength. He can do this! No stupid bowl of soup is going to control Arthur Kirkland! He brings a meatball- a meatball!- to his mouth and chews it slowly, savoring the taste of the meat. He doesn’t have meat often because of the calorie content, so the flavor is welcome and pleasing. He really should convince Francis to bring him food more often, even if he is french. 

 

* * *

 

Arthur leans back in his seat, feeling warm and contented. A full belly and house ful of friends is something he has not had in a long time, and now he savors the feeling. Screw calories; this is nice. Beside him, Alfred seems to share similar sentiments. The american has his eyes closed and, every few seconds, his head nods forward, only to jerk back again. Arthur smiles at the sight, because while he’d never admit it aloud, Alfred is quite cute when he’s sleepy. 

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Alfred’s head falls onto Arthur’s shoulder and rests there. Arthur can feel himself turning a little red, but he doesn’t move for fear of waking the american. He knows the Alfred tends to stay up late and get up early, so he probably needs the rest...

 

“Oh, what is this?” Arthur’s head whips up to see Francis standing in front of him, one hand barely concealing a smile. “I come back from the restroom to find this! Kiku, look!” Arthur’s face is burning hot when Kiku looks up from his game at see Alfred passed out on Arthur’s shoulder. Damn sleepy Americans and their stupid french friends!

 

“He’s- We’re- He’s just sleeping!” Arthur suspects that he is not helping his case, because Francis begins to giggle. As if that isn’t enough, Arthur must have spoken too loudly, because Alfred groans and shifts, moving from Arthur’s shoulder to outright lying on his lap. Arthur is suddenly reminded of a scene from the other day, where he fell asleep in Alfred's lap, but that wasn’t in front of Francis and Kiku! Friend cuddles are a private affair!

 

“Suuuuure, mon ami. But the two of you would be much happier if you made it official, no?” Francis wiggles his eyebrows in a way that Arthur is very unhappy with. 

 

“There’s nothing there. Alfred sees me as a friend, and I am  _ not  _ gay.” Arthur folds his arms in front of his chest and turns his head away from Francis. He would walk away, but Alfred is asleep, and it would be rude to wake him up. He hears a sigh from Francis that can only be described as skeptical.

  
“Whatever you tell yourself. Just be careful that you do not break ‘is ‘eart because you are not in touch with l’amour.” Arthur glares at Francis. How dare he insinuate that Arthur will break Alfred’s heart! Because Alfred’s not in love with him; he can’t be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys and all of your support, as usual I'm blown away by how nice you all are to me! For the most part, I know where this fic is going, and I have a couple others in the works. Which would you be more interested in: a fic that jumps around from many characters but focuses on prucan, or a dennor medieval au?


	12. Smoothie hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Arthur get ready for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK SO LONG
> 
> So sorry this is short and late and everything! AP testing has me super stressed, and I've been so distracted.

When Arthur wakes up, he is very confused and very warm. He groans, shifting, only to find that wherever he is, it’s completely dark. And soft. As his sleepy brain processes his surroundings, he realizes that he’s got the comforter of his bed completely covering him and blocking the light, a pillow under one arm, and... an arm wrapped around him. He tenses up a little and tries to turn his head and see whose arm it is, even though he already knows. 

 

“Artie...? You awake?” Damn it. Alfred doesn’t even sound all that sleepy, so that means that he’s been waiting for Arthur to get up. And they’re still cuddling. Memories flood in along with embarrassment; Alfred had woken up, stumbled into Arthur’s bed, and promptly fallen back asleep. At that point, Arthur had just wanted to sleep somewhere nice and warm.

 

“I’m  _ so  _ glad Francis already left, or we would never hear the end of this.” Arthur stretches and wriggles around, trying to get his head out from under the covers. He hears a gentle giggle from Alfred just as his head finally emerges, and he realizes with a start that he’s  _ really  _ close to Alfred's face.

 

“Good morning!” Alfred grins at him, and Arthur finds himself smiling back, much to his chagrin. Why is it that Alfred seems to be able to break all of his rules? Like the not-cuddling-with-your-best-friend rule. And the not-smiling-at-said-best-friend-when- you’re-supposed-to-be-annoyed-with-him rule.

 

“Wanker.” Arthur forces his face into the closest thing to a scowl he can manage, but Alfred just laughs again and starts moving around. Arthur’s confused for a moment, until he realizes that Alfred's trying to get out of the bed.

 

“Let’s get up and eat breakfast! I’m hungry!” Alfred sounds like a seven year old, and Arthur rolls his eyes at the American. 

 

“Sure, whatever.” He slides out of bed and follows Alfred into the main room of his apartment. He’s surprised to see there isn’t much of mess, despite having guests over. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if Kiku cleaned up though, and Francis have might too. Either way, the flat is clean and Arthur doesn’t have to be the one to do it, so he’ll be able to relax all morning. Then, Alfred or no Alfred, he’ll have to go to his afternoon classes. 

 

“I’m gonna make us smoothies, how’s that sound?” Arthur glances up in surprise at Alfred’s words, only to realize that the other man is already at the fridge. He’s already taking out yogurt and a package of strawberries, clearly not waiting for Arthur to respond.

 

“Sounds fine. What are you putting in them?” Arthur doesn’t really want breakfast at all honestly, but he knows that Alfred’s going to make him eat something. It could be a lot worse than smoothies.

 

“Frozen bananas, strawberries, and yogurt. Normally I’d put protein powder in too, but you don’t have any and plus I don’t think you’d appreciate the extra calories.” Alfred takes some sliced bananas out of the freezer as he talks, setting the ziploc full of them on the counter beside the strawberries.

 

“When did you put those in there?” Arthur doesn’t remember him putting anything in the freezer.

 

“Last night, while Kiku was helping you with that pokemon thing. After I woke up, right before Francis left, remember?” Arthur doesn’t remember, but he nods anyways. Something feels off somehow, he realizes, his brow furrowing. Alfred’s awfully calm this morning, isn’t he? Arthur studies him carefully as the American plugs the blender in. Alfred’s tanned hands are shaking slightly, his shoulders tense, and he’s biting his lip, so Arthur slides closer, almost touching Alfred.

 

“Al, are you okay?” Arthur sets his hand on Alfred’s shoulder, keeping his voice soft and hand gentle.

 

“Uh, yeah! I’m fine!” Alfred's voice is too high, his words too fast.

 

“No, you’re not. What’s wrong?” Arthur tries to catch Alfred’s gaze, but realizes that the american has shut his eyes.

 

“You know how, sometimes, you feel really hungry? Like your body is going to eat itself if you don’t stuff yourself with the entire fridge? But also like you’re the fattest thing in existence?” Alfred is almost whispering, and Arthur pulls him into a hug. He rubs Alfred’s back gently as he feels tears soaking into his shirt. 

 

“It’s okay Al. How about we both have a reasonably sized smoothie and then we go for a walk?” Arthur isn’t actually sure that he’ll be able to eat the entire smoothie, but a walk does sound nice. And Alfred isn’t in any state to force food into him, so he’s probably safe on that front. How many calories is in a smoothie anyways?

 

“Yeah, let’s do that.” Alfred doesn’t sound as excited as usual, but he does sound quite a bit better than a few moments ago. He pulls away from Arthur, turning back to the counter, and dumps the ingredients in the blender. The whirring of the blender serves as a nice backdrop to Arthur’s thoughts. Alfred used two yogurts, 200, and then there’s two bananas so maybe 300 from that. And then the strawberries, which are likely close to 200 in all, so... 350 for one half of what Alfred’s making. Arthur doesn’t think he can handle 350 right now; he’s too fat, too gross. And he had far too much food yesterday. No, he’ll have to distract Alfred and do something to get rid of the smoothie. Or skip lunch and dinner. 

 

“All done!” The blender stops, and Alfred starts pouring the pink sludge into two glasses that Arthur doesn’t remember him getting out of the cabinet. He can still see the tear stains on Alfred’s face, but the glasses of poison are too distracting for him to say anything. Oh god, he really intends on making Arthur drink the whole glass, doesn’t he?

 

“Looks good.” Arthur feels the words stick in his throat, wonders if Alfred can hear the hesitation in his breath. He  _ really  _ does not feel up to a smoothie, but Alfred is upset and if Arthur says something right now then he’s copying Alfred and he’s a faker. And attention seeker. No, he’s keeping this quiet.

 

“Yup!” Alfred hands him the glass. “Bottoms up!” Arthur takes the glass and eyes it dubiously. Alfred is chugging it down hungrily, and Arthur takes the opportunity to turn around, facing the sink and the window behind it. 

 

A hand lands on his shoulder. “You good?” Alfred is staring at him, a half empty glass in his hand. 

 

“Yeah. It’s a beautiful day outside.” Arthur purposefully raises the glass to his lips, tilting the cup back. He doesn’t open his lips, but still makes a big deal of swallowing and sighing in what he hopes sounds like relief.

  
“Sure is. I’m going to go start a load of laundry, you be sure to finish that, alrighty?” Arthur just nods in response, and listens carefully to Alfred’s footsteps growing more and more distant. When he deems the time that has passed to be enough, he dumps his smoothie down the sink and turns the tap on, flushing the liquid down the drain. 350 calories, avoided. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys, and I would really appreciate some feedback! Have a good rest of your week, and stay safe <3


	13. Yogurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur didn't eat his smoothie, and Alfred didn't do the laundry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pretend this is good hahahah I've been sick all weekend and I just wanted this chapter OVER. My own eating problems are getting worse, and while it gives me fuel for writing this, it also lends itself to frustrating and angsty chapters.

Arthur stares out the window for another second before something occurs to him. He does not have a washing machine or dryer in his flat. Alfred has definitely not left the flat. 

 

“Al..?” His voice is a bit tentative, and he’s hoping that Alfred will answer from the bedroom or something. No such luck. He walks through the living area, finds it empty. A feeling of dread pools in his gut, and he strains his ears. Much to his dismay, he can faintly hear the tap running in his bathroom. He races down the hallway, stopping in front of the bathroom and banging on its door.

 

“Al, open this right now!” He tries the door hopefully, but finds it locked. Arthur hears shuffling behind the door, and hears the tap stop, leaving his fast breathing as the only sound. 

 

“If I open it, are you gonna yell at me?” Alfred sounds so small, so tiny, and Arthur feels himself wilt. 

 

“No, I’m not going to yell. Are you okay?” Arthur has a suspicion that Alfred is very much not okay. He hears the toilet flush and the tap run again, making him tense up.

 

“Just washing my hands.” Arthur relaxes, moving away from the door so Alfred can open it. It swings open slowly, revealing a red faced american with his hands behind his back. 

 

Arthur pulls him into a hug. “Let’s get you to the couch. Do you need water?” He pulls away a bit, leading Alfred into his living room. Alfred nods and collapses onto the couch as soon as they get there, his eyes slipping shut. Arthur forces himself into the kitchen and grabs a glass, filling it with water. He feels like a shitty friend; after all, he ignored all the warning signs so he could dump his bloody smoothie down the drain. Who does that? Shouldn’t his friends come before his diet? Walking back into the living room, he hands Alfred the water and sits beside him. Alfred sips the water daintily, and Arthur realizes his hands are shaking violently. He starts to speak, but Alfred beat him to it.

 

“‘M sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” Alfred sounds so guilty, so sorry that Arthur feels a pang of guilt. Maybe he should have eaten that smoothie? Alfred’s struggling too, and he should at least make an effort to eat something. 

 

“It’s alright, so long as you try not to do it again.” Arthur almost,  _ almost  _ lets slip that he didn’t even taste his smoothie, but he doesn’t. What if Alfred wants him to have something else? What if it’s worse?

 

“I, uh, didn’t have time to get much up. If that’s any consolation.” Alfred takes a deep, shuddering breath, and Arthur rubs his back in a way that he hopes is soothing. Should he say that he didn’t have his smoothie? Alfred is being so honest with him, but he isn’t really sick, not like Alfred is, so he didn’t need that smoothie anyway. Right?

 

“I’d rather you hadn’t even tried, but...” Arthur has no idea what to say. What are you supposed to say in times like this? “I’m not in any place to criticize.” Oh god. He’s telling him, isn’t he. Damn it.

 

Alfred looks up at him, a confused frown on his face. “What?”

 

“I dumped mine down the drain as soon as you were out of sight.” Whoops. Wasn’t he going to keep that a secret? So he wouldn’t have to eat more? Arthur bites at his bottom lip nervously. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything?

 

“Oh. I guess I’m not surprised.” Alfred laughs uneasily, and Arthur can’t help but feel unnerved. This situation is so... uncomfortable. “I guess we should both eat something then. Even though I don’t really want to.” 

 

Now, that sentiment is one Arthur is familiar with. “I don’t really want to either, to tell you the truth.” He hopes that Alfred will let it slide. No breakfast for Arthur, half a breakfast for Alfred. All good. 

 

“But we really should. Think about how annoyed Francis will be if he finds out we’re enabling each other. He’ll launch into some sort of psychological analysis and probably threaten to take us to a hospital or something.” Alfred laughs a bit, and Arthur can’t tell if it’s a real laugh or not but he smiles anyway.

 

“Has he said that before?” Francis is majoring in Psychology, making him quite possibly the most obnoxious student on campus. Psychological analysis and threats  _ totally  _ sounds like something he would do, just to be a prat. 

 

“Yeah, when he caught me purging after class one time. He said that if I don’t try and get better on my own, he’d drive me to the nearest hospital and force me to stay. Honestly, I think it’s a bit much, considering that I’m not even in any kind of danger.” Alfred seems rather relaxed about the whole thing, but Arthur feels his skin prickle.  _ Alfred  _ isn’t in danger, so  _ Arthur  _ must not even be sick. After all, Alfred has it so, so much worse than him. So much worse. 

 

“I would have punched that bloody frog.” Arthur doesn’t think he actually would have, but he’s feeling mildly annoyed for whatever reason, so he figures aggression is the right answer. It usually is. 

 

Alfred laughs. “I just cried, to be honest. Now, c’mon, let’s both have some yogurt. That’s low calorie enough.” Arthur nods, not wanting to mention that on a good day he doesn’t always eat even 100 calories. He tries to keep his intake as low as possible, so when he has perfect control over himself and he can say no to his breakfast of rice cakes, he can skip lunch and sometimes dinner too. Yogurt ruins those plans, forcing him into at least 100 calories, calories that he could take out of his body fat instead. Arthur doesn’t need those 100 calories.

 

“Uh, Arthur? You there buddy?” Arthur snaps out of his thoughts, glancing up to see Alfred’s worried face.

 

“Sorry, I got lost in thought.” Arthur gives Alfred a thin smile, which quickly fades as Alfred passes him a yogurt. The packaging yet again fails to make him any more eager to eat it, but he peels off the foil lid nonetheless. The yogurt underneath is separated and unappetizing. Arthur isn’t going to eat that. 

 

“I’m not eating this.” Arthur sees Alfred flash him a look. 

 

“Uh, actually, you are.” Alfred does not look amused. “If you don’t, I’m calling Francis and Kiku and we’re all going to sit here and stare at you until you do.” Arthur is not fazed. He shakes his head. Alfred sighs.

 

Arthur sticks his tongue out. “I don’t need to eat it. I have plenty of body fat for nourishment.” Alfred seems to disagree, because he puts his head in his hands. 

 

“Okay, so, I really don’t want to, but you do realize that I’m going to take you to a doctor if you refuse to eat? You’re already really thin, and I bet you have health problems from this already. You need to eat.” Now, this strikes home with Arthur.

 

“I am  _ not  _ sick. I’m not even underweight.” Arthur crosses his arms and stares Alfred down. The american in question first looks surprised, then confused, and then angry. Arthur hopes that he looks angrier. 

 

“Alright. Do you consider  _ me  _ sick?” Alfred’s voice is uneven, a bit forced. Arthur wonders if he’ll cry, and feels a twinge of guilt behind his stubbornness.

 

“Yes, I do. You’re not only thinner than I am, you also have a real problem. I’m not really sick yet, just on my way there.” Arthur watches Alfred’s shoulders slump and him run a hand down his face in frustration. 

 

“Dude. You do realize I’m overweight, right? And you’re definitely thinner than me, if that’s a measure of how” Alfred makes air quotes. “‘sick’ someone is. But it isn’t. And your problem is just as real as mine. Now eat your damn yogurt.” Arthur stares blankly at Alfred for a moment before looking down at his yogurt. Alfred is overweight? But...

  
Arthur knows that distorted body image is common with this kind of... problem. But Arthur doesn’t see himself as  _ obese  _ or anything; he just looks fat. He’s not skinny, or he’d look that way, right? There’s no way he’s skinnier than Alfred. Alfred is  _ lean  _ and  _ muscular,  _ so that must be why. Otherwise, Alfred would be much smaller than Arthur. Arthur sighs and stirs his yogurt, halfheartedly raising a spoonful to his mouth. He swallows the (poison) food without tasting it, looking up to Alfred before taking his next bite. His friend is eating his yogurt at a similarly sluggish speed, and when he sees Arthur looking at him, he smiles a bit. Arthur smiles back, and takes another spoonful of yogurt. 


	14. Friends and Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets advice from two people. One, solicited. The other, not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pretend this isn't horribly late! Finals have absorbed my life ;-;

Arthur steps out of the classroom, his bag on his shoulder and a scowl on his face. It really is quite a feat how that class manages to irk him as much as it does, but Arthur’s determined to get a good grade and prove that stupid class... wrong. The brit sighs, running a hand through his already mussed hair. It really isn’t the fault of the class that he’s so irritated; no, it’s the idiot sitting next to him. He’s moved before, all the way across the room, but that piece of shit always follows him. Why, he can’t imagine. Is it really so fun to torment poor Arthur?

 

“Hey, Arturo!” Speak of the devil. Antonio sets a hand down on Arthur’s shoulder, leaning into him with a mocking smile. “You doing okay? You nearly blew a fuse in there when I corrected you!” Arthur glares at Antonio, glares at his stupid smile. Can’t this idiot mind his own business?

 

“Yes, because you didn’t feel the need to point out anyone  _ else’s  _ mistakes.” Arthur hisses, and he starts walking faster in hopes Antonio will leave him alone. The spaniard is perfectly cordial to everyone else, so Arthur has no clue as to why the idiot can’t leave him alone. 

 

“Aww, you know you love it! But, anyways!” Antonio grabs Arthur’s arm, pulling him to a halt. Arthur turns to see him rummaging in his bag, and Arthur considers walking away. For some inexplicable reason, he doesn’t. “I brought churros!”

 

Arthur glares at Antonio as he holds out a tupperware of the food. “I’m not hungry.” Antonio frowns, putting one hand on his hip. 

 

“Amigo, we live in the same housing, and I’ve never once seen you in the dining hall.” Arthur doesn’t back down under that stare. 

 

“So? I prefer to eat elsewhere.” Arthur finds himself tempted to look away. Isn’t Antonio supposed to be his enemy? 

 

Antonio sighs and shoves the tupperware into Arthur’s chest, forcing the brit to take it from him. “Gil worries about you, you know. So do Lovi and Franny.” 

 

Arthur wonders what that means, coming from Antonio. “There’s nothing for them to worry about,  _ Anthony.  _ I’m fine.” Antonio sighs and runs a hand through his curly hair. 

 

“I don’t think anybody but you believes that,  _ Arturo. _ ” He turns around, walking away, and Arthur just starts to turn as he looks back. “Take care of yourself.” Arthur stares at him for a second before giving a quick nod. Weren’t they enemies? What did Arthur miss? Arthur turns around and heads towards his apartment, churros in hand. 

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur slams the door of his apartment shut and stomps inside, throwing the  _ stupid  _ tupperware of  _ stupid  _ churros down onto his counter. He throws himself on the couch and buries his face into the cushions, tempted to scream but not sure if the couch would muffle it enough. Why is everybody trying to help him? He doesn’t need their help. Doesn’t deserve it. It’s not what he wants, not what he asked for. He’s just a mean abrasive brit, and he wanted to actually  _ do  _ something right for once. Just lose a couple of pounds, get fit so that he can have as many girls as he wants. He knows that his goal isn’t exactly “fit”, but it isn’t fat and that’s what’s important. 

 

Arthur wants to call somebody, wants to tell them other people are trying to control his life and he hates it. He wants to call somebody who doesn’t know, someone who will tell him he can control his own life if he wants, but all the people he would normally consider calling  _ know.  _ Who is he supposed to talk to if he doesn’t want to get better? Arthur doesn’t want to eat food and “get better” and gain weight and pretend everything's okay. He wants to feel empty again, clean and pure and tiny. Arthur wants to stay like he is now. He wants to get worse. He wants to be sick.

 

He rolls over on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He can do this, can’t he? Empty the yogurts into his sink, the other food into the garbage. Take out the trash before Alfred comes back on Fridays. Eat with him, Kiku, and Francis. Act normal. So far, they haven’t tried to weigh him, so they probably won’t at all. They won’t notice the weight loss if they think he’s eating. He’ll make up for the cold and the dizziness with more clothing and more caffeine. He can do this. 

 

But for now... He still wants to call someone. Someone he hasn’t seen in awhile, someone who will reaffirm his decision so long as he keeps it vague. He knows just the person. How could he have forgotten? Matthew doesn’t know, sees Arthur as a close friend, and hates being pushed around by Alfred and his friends. If Arthur calls him, there’s no way Matthew will disagree with him. Arthur picks up the phone and dials his number, holding the device up to his ear.

 

“ _ Hello?” _

 

“Hello, Matthew.”

 

“ _ Arthur! How have you been?”  _ Matthew sounds a touch happier once he recognizes Arthur’s voice, and Arthur feels a small smile creep onto his lips. 

 

“Could be worse, I suppose. How about you?” Arthur hopes that Matthew will comment on his response, seeing as his usual reply is a simple “I’ve been well.” As much as Arthur wants to complain about his life, he doesn’t want to force the conversation. 

 

“ _ I’m good! What’s bothering you?”  _ Arthur can hear a hint of concern in Matthew’s voice, and he’s glad he decided to call. Matthew never fails to listen to Arthur, even if Arthur forgets about him sometimes.

 

“People keep trying to control my life, and I’m really tired of it.” Arthur’s frustration is still there, hot and painful. This is  _ his  _ life,  _ his  _ business. Alfred and Antonio need to stay out of it. 

 

Matthew makes a sympathetic noise before answering. “ _ Really? That sucks. What are they doing?”  _ Arthur takes a moment to think. What should he say?

 

“I’m trying to take care of myself and be productive, but they’re acting like I’m doing myself a disservice by paying attention to my health instead of partying.” Not a total lie, but not really the truth. “You’d think that they’d want me to take an interest in my health, but apparently not.” 

 

Matthew pauses slightly, and Arthur can hear a little bit of static through the receiver. “ _ So you’ve been working out, and they don’t like it?” _

 

Arthur sighs. “More like changing my diet. But yes, they are quite disapproving and frankly it’s gotten a bit old.”

 

“ _ Well, I haven’t seen you in a while, so I don’t know how you look, but good for you! Not enough people pay attention to their eating nowadays. Just don’t go overboard!”  _ Matthew laughs, and Arthur does too. Matthew is right. He’s doing the right thing. He’s not going  _ overboard _ . If he was, he’d be underweight by now. 

 

“Thank you. I’m glad you at least agree with me.” Arthur hears Matthew chuckle, then a beeping on the other side of the call.

 

“ _ Oh! I have to go, sorry, I’m cooking and that was the timer. We should get together sometime soon, bye!”  _ Matthew is polite and apologetic, as always, and Arthur replies with a short goodbye before Matthew hangs up. Arthur wonders what Matthew is cooking. Surely not pancakes, since those don’t need a timer. Arthur smiles, remembering when Matthew taught him (very patiently) how to make pancakes without burning them. It had been a lot of fun. 

 

But now, Arthur has no need for pancakes. No need for food. He doesn't have to listen to Alfred or Antonio or Francis or  _ anyone _ . It’s his body, and he can lose more weight if he wants. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Antonio was really OOC, but I wanted to portray the Spanish Empire and competitive side of him? There's not much canon interaction between Arthur and Antonio, so I'm not really sure I did it right


	15. Sandwiches Return!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is in control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late because I thought I'd already posted it like 5 days ago rip

Today is Wednesday, and Arthur is tired. He has to force himself out of bed, into the kitchen, in front of the fridge. He peels open his yogurt half heartedly, and dumps it down the sink with enthusiasm. 100 calories of fat that he’ll be losing. 100 calories of  _ progress.  _ He downs a glass of water instead, savoring the way it feels in his empty stomach. Cold, clean,  _ good.  _ He really missed this. Sighing happily, he walks out of his kitchen and grabs his bag. He’s got classes today from nine to two, and he doesn't plan on taking a break for lunch. Maybe he’ll go for a walk. Burn off what he’s surely gained with all of Alfred’s pushing. Yes, that sounds good. It’ll be good.

 

* * *

 

 

Today is Thursday, and Arthur is standing on the scale. Frankly, he’s shocked- 9 stone, 10.2 pounds had not been what he was expecting. He had been steeling himself for weight gain, and while .8 pounds isn’t a lot to lose, it’s definitely better than gaining. But not good enough. Arthur’s done the math, and if he isn’t losing at least 2 pounds a week, he isn’t trying hard enough. 9 stone 10.2 pounds is still a long way from 8 stone 13 pounds, and even further from 8 stone. A stone and 10.2 pounds left- that’s what, 24.2 pounds? A lot. More than Arthur wants there to be. So he’ll try harder today, he thinks as he walks into his kitchen, dumping his yogurt, three bananas, and a frozen meal into the garbage. No food at all today. Tomorrow Alfred will want him to eat, and he might even hang around Saturday too. Arthur can’t risk slowing down his progress. Would he be able to fast? Probably not more than one day, not without bingeing. But he’ll sure as hell try.

* * *

 

Today is Friday, and Arthur is waiting for Alfred. He’s sitting leisurely on the couch, a book in one hand and a half eaten (thrown away, but it  _ looks  _ eaten) banana in the other. He was so  _ so  _ good yesterday, and he managed to eat nothing but water and air. He feels nice- clean, pure, empty. He just has to eat today, maybe tomorrow, and then he’ll continue with his plans. It’ll be nice, and he’ll get to lose weight without worrying Alfred. The best of both worlds, in a way. Sure, he’ll be dizzy and weak and cold, but that’s the point. If he’s dizzyweakcold, then he’s  _ sick _ . 

 

“Hey, Arthur, I’m here!” The door swings open, revealing the Alfred’s smiling face. Behind him, Francis is holding what appears to be a brown paper bag. “We brought food!” Alfred sees Arthur on the couch, and a huge smile split his face open. Arthur smiles in return, but he can’t help but wonder if his is nearly as big as Alfred's. Even his  _ smiles  _ will never compare to the American’s.

 

“ _ Bonjour,  _ Arthur. I made sandwiches, and I’ve also brought a salad and some sparkling waters. Alfred wanted me to bring soda, but I was not sure if you’d be okay with liquid calories.” Francis’s smile is a lot more cautious, but he seems to relax a bit when he sees the banana in Arthur’s hand. He and Alfred walk in, Francis setting his bag down on the table and Alfred plopping down next to Arthur. His grin seems to burn a hole in Arthur’s heart. 

 

“So, Artie, I have to say, I’m glad to see that you’re snacking.” Alfred glances at the banana, then back to Arthur, who tries his best to smile back. 

 

“Yes, I’ve been enjoying the fruit quite a bit. I’m nearly out of food though, so I’ll be going to the store tomorrow.” Arthur says it casually, as if he didn’t carefully plan out his words before Alfred arrived. His work is worth it though, because Alfred’s grin brightens by about 1000 degrees and Arthur’s heart turns to a cinder for lying. 

 

“That’s great! I’ve been doing really good too. I haven’t purged in seven days, and I haven’t binged in 9!” At Alfred’s words, Arthur smiles for real. That’s good. Alfred is getting better. This is good- no, it’s great. Alfred doesn't need to be sick; Arthur can do that alone.

 

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, how about those sandwiches?” Arthur stands up and stretches, Alfred following suit. As they pass into the kitchen, Arthur drops the banana into the garbage, the empty garbage. He feels a tug at his sleeve and turns to see Alfred’s frown. 

 

“How come you’re tossing that out?” Alfred looks worried again, less happy, less convinced. Arthur curses mentally for messing up his charade; he’s ruined it. 

 

He waves a hand like it’s nothing. “Well, we have dinner right here. I don’t want to spoil my appetite.” Arthur watches Alfred’s face, which relaxes a little, but doesn’t return to it’s normal grin. There’s nothing Arthur can do though; even if he  _ wanted  _ to eat the banana, it was already in the trash. 

 

Alfred hums lightly in response. “Francis spent like an hour stressing out over what to bring, by the way. He was  _ so  _ worried that-”

 

“Alfred. Shut up.” Francis has turned bright red, and he folds his arms over his chest. Arthur tries his best not to laugh at the sight, but a small snicker still escapes him. Francis, stressing over what to feed  _ him?  _ It’s priceless!

 

Alfred laughs. “Yeah, whatever dude.” Arthur can just barely see Francis rolling his eyes. 

 

“So, what kind of sandwiches are they?” Arthur hopes he doesn’t sound  _ too  _ interested, because he's not. He’s not hungry because he has more self control than that. His body doesn’t rule him.

 

“Well, I wasn’t sure what you would like best, so I made a few different kinds. There’s cream cheese and cucumber, bacon lettuce and tomato,  _ pain bagnat,  _ chicken salad,  _ jambon-beurre  _ for myself, and a peanut butter and marshmallow one for the child.” Francis, as he speaks, takes out each one of the sandwiches and sets them down on Arthur’s table. 

 

“Hey! I’m not a child! And it’s called fluffernutter.” Alfred goes mostly ignored as Arthur examines the sandwiches.

 

He looks at Francis, who looks slightly uneasy. “There’s quite a lot. You did manage to bring my favorite kind though.” Arthur clears his throat uneasily. “Thank you.” Francis looks pleased, and a grin breaks out on the frenchman’s face.

 

“Which one would that be?” Francis looks so pleased that Arthur thinks he should pretend to be recovering as often as possible. Make his friends happy. They don’t deserve to suffer because he’s a fat failure.

 

“The BLT, of course. What do you plan to do with the leftovers?” Arthur doesn’t really care all that much about the leftovers. He just wants to make small talk, cover for himself as he does math in his head. A slice of bread is what, 70? And bacon is around 70 a slice as well. Arthur glances at the sandwich and sees what looks like 3 slices poking out the sides, along with mayo. He figures that the whole thing must come out to around 450, far more than he wants to eat. But he has to, else Alfred and Francis will know something is up and will start asking questions. He’s got to keep up the act.

 

“Oh, I was planning to leave them here. They’d make easy meals throughout the week.” Francis looks at him as if to ask if that’s okay, and Arthur nods. He just has to throw them out one a day, so that if Alfred comes over uninvited he looks convincing. Just like he has to eat one now to look convincing. 

 

Alfred shoves his way between the, startling Arthur. “Are we ever going to eat? Cause I’m starving!” Arthur can’t help but laugh a little at Alfred.

 

“Sure, we can eat. I’m pretty hungry myself.” The second part comes out quieter than he would like, but it must have been convincing enough because neither of his friends ask. Arthur lets Francis and Alfred grab their sandwiches before he takes his, turning around to sit on the couch. Of course, there’s a bit of a dilemma there because Alfred’s got his feet stretched out in record time, taking up far more than he would if he would sit like a  _ civilized  _ person. 

 

“Alfred. I do need to sit.” Arthur doesn’t even bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

 

Alfred chuckles and pats his lap. “Why don’t you just sit here? I’m comfy, I promise.” Arthur rolls his eyes and decides to call Alfred’s bluff. Once he feels how heavy he is, he’ll move his legs and act his age. Arthur plops down on Alfred’s legs, but Alfred’s reaction is most certainly not what he expected. The American doesn’t complain or struggle, instead patting Arthur on the head like a dog. 

 

“What are you doing?” Arthur glares at Alfred, but the younger man just laughs.

 

“Your hair is soft!” Alfred sounds pretty pleased with himself, so Arthur bites back the insult waiting on his tongue. Instead, he rolls his eyes and unwraps his sandwich, careful not to get any crumbs on his couch. Beside him, Alfred is less careful, getting marshmallow all over his fingers and licking it off with his  _ incredibly pink  _ tongue. Not that Arthur’s watching. That’d be absurd.

 

Arthur turns back to his sandwich and takes a bite. It’s good, like Francis’s cooking always is, and he smiles at the flavor. He hadn’t been lying when he said BLTs are his favorite, and he has to admit that eating can be enjoyable in moderation. He swallows the mouthful and belatedly wonders if a sandwich would upset his stomach after a fast. Probably, but he’s had worse. Ice cream binges after days of fasting are hell, if he remembers correctly, and this is nothing compared to thousands of calorie sof sugar and cream. 

  
“Good?” Arthur’s startled out of his thoughts by Francis, who’s peering over at him and holding his own sandwich. Arthur just nods and smiles, taking another bite. He’s just got to keep this act up, and then nobody will suspect a thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this isn't too weird? Arthur gets worse whenever I do lol but also I have trouble writing coherently when I'm having trouble with my eating. Also, I've never done so much research on sandwiches before


	16. Whoops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur will be fine, so long as he doesn't pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could this chapter be longer? Definitely! But it's already late as-is, and it's a good stopping point!
> 
> The reason it's so late is because I've been out of town and working on this: http://hhhetalia-imagines.tumblr.com/   
> It's basically my baby now rip

Arthur slides out of the classroom, dizzy and exhausted. Alfred left without spending the night and didn’t return all weekend, so he hasn’t eaten anything since Friday. For some reason, it’s harder than it had been before, his body weaker, mind foggier. He kept falling asleep in class, and now he’s very glad it’s over. He stumbles into the men’s restroom and leans over the sink, thanking his lucky stars that it’s empty. Taking deep breaths, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to wish away the dizziness. While it’s nice to know he’s actually restricting low enough to hurt his body, to be sick, he doesn’t want to pass out in the hallway. He doesn’t have any more classes today, so all he has to do it walk to the bus stop, survive the ride to his apartment, and get up the elevator. The stairs would end poorly if he tried them right now. 

 

But he’ll miss the bus if he delays now. He takes a few unsteady steps towards the door, leaning on the sink. God, how he wishes he could lie down right now. That’d be really nice. Normally when this happens, he has to lie down for hours to feel normal. He opens the door and walks through, head spinning. When he sees a familiar figure in the doorway though, his blood goes cold and he nearly loses his precarious balance in surprise. A shock of white hair seems to dance around the room as he clutches the door for support

 

“Arthur? Hey, are you okay!?” Gilbert grabs Arthur's shoulders, effectively holding him upright. Arthur vaguely recalls Antonio saying Gilbert was worried about him. Great. This won’t help his case any. 

 

Arthur pushes Gilbert's hands away. “‘M fine.” He tries to push past Gilbert, but he can’t seem to find the strength, and instead he ends up slumped against the taller man. Gilbert holds him up again, and Arthur can just barely see his brow furrow out of the corner of his eyes.

 

“Okay, let’s get you to a chair. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Gilbert’s voice is calm and clear as he leads Arthur out of the bathroom and onto a nearby couch. There’s little areas like this all over campus, for students who are early to class or want to study. Arthur’s just glad it’s close.

 

He realizes Gilbert had asked him a question. “Dizzy.” He sees Gilbert crouch down in front of him. Arthur leans forward, resting his head between his knees. Is he going to pass out? He hopes not. It’d be too hard to explain.

 

“Alright, Mattie’s med class is just down the hall. I’m gonna go get the professor, since he’s a doctor. You just hang tight, okay? I’ll be right back.” Gilbert stands up and starts to run down the hall. It makes sense now, how Gilbert knew what to do, more or less. The German is majoring in chemical engineering, but Matthew is a pre-med student. Arthur can’t think too hard about that right now though. Why was he sitting here again? Shouldn’t he be heading home? What time was it?

 

“Yeah, he’s right here. Says he’s dizzy, and he can’t even stand up on his own.” Is that Gilbert? Oh, right, he went to go get help.

 

“Thank you, Gilbert. Can you go get a cup of water and some crackers?There’s a cooler in my room and the crackers should be in the top right drawer of my desk” Arthur recognizes that voice. It’s the professor from the room across from his last class on Mondays and Wednesdays. Is it Wednesday already? Arthur feels a hand on his wrist, checking his pulse. He doesn’t look up. 

 

“Arthur, I’m going to lie you down and elevate your feet. Does this happen often?” The man sounds relatively calm, probably because Arthur’s heart has yet to stop. 

 

“Yeah, just... sometimes. When I, you know, do too much with too little.” Does he make sense? Probably not. Arthur feels hands shifting him, and he tries his best to help out. He’s turned and lowered so that his back is flat on the couch and his feet on one of the armrests. He feels the professor taking his shoes off. 

 

“Too little what?” The guy sounds confused, not that Arthur blames him.

 

But he can’t elaborate. “I don’t know. I want to sleep.” Sleeping always, always fixes this particular problem without fail. Always.

 

“Try to stay awake for now.” A rustling. “Oh, thank you Gilbert.” It’s then that Arthur realizes his eyes are shut, and he opens them. The professor, a white haired man in a suit, is crouched next to him, accepting a paper cup full of water from Gilbert.

 

“Is he gonna be okay?” Gilbert sounds genuinely concerned. For all the German’s energy and flaws, Arthur knows he can be plenty serious at times. 

 

“I believe so. Arthur, can you try to sit up? I want you to drink this water and eat some crackers. Did you have lunch today?” The professor is still calm, but Arthur is not. He feels prickly fingers of fear scrape down his spine, draining his blood and choking his breath. No crackers. Crackers are empty calories. He feels the professor, or maybe Gil, gently helping him to sit up. Turning his head, he sees that it’s Gil, and he sends him a pleading expression, but Gilbert does nothing except frown. 

 

“I had a big lunch. I-I don’t need the crackers.” Arthur thinks he must not be very convincing. 

 

“Please eat them anyway. I think you’re dizzy because of low blood sugar. It’ll help, I promise.” The professor unwraps the crackers, cellophane crinkling harshly. Arthur realizes that if he does not eat these crackers, then Gilbert and the professor will  _ know _ . They might already know. But if he does not eat the crackers, there will be no question, and then somebody with the power to force him to get help and the medical degree to back it up will know. He has to eat those crackers, no matter how fat they’ll make him. He knows that a saltine cracker is 42 calories because in the dining hall they have lots of them and he has considered grabbing them as a snack, back when he would eat lunch. When did that stop, again?

 

He takes the crackers, 84 calories of them, from the professor and takes a bite out of one. It is dry, bland, and slightly sweet. It melts on his tongue. He did the math, once upon a time, and he knows one gram of fat is around 7.7 calories, so these crackers are making him... 11 grams fatter. But only 11 grams. It’s worth keeping his secret. He chews the cracker into a paste, swallowing it and gulping down the cup of water. The water tastes far better than the crackers, he thinks. Far better.

 

“Do you have any classes left today?” Arthur glances at the professor, who is not smiling but doesn’t look angry. 

 

“No, that was my last one until noon tomorrow.” Arthur is glad that he has his early classes on monday. Otherwise, he’d have to miss class and he  _ hates  _ missing class.

 

The professor offers him a smile. “That’s good. Gilbert, are you free as well? I think Arthur is going to be fine, but he shouldn’t be alone in case something more serious is going on.” Arthur wonders if an eating disorder is more serious. Not that he’s really disordered, not really. He’s just... difficult. He looks at the cracker in his hand. Maybe they’ll forget about it. 

 

“Yeah, I’m free. And I know where he lives.” Gilbert is unusually serious. Well... Arthur can recall study sessions with Francis and Gilbert where Gilbert was a perfectionist and a slave driver. It’s just not often that he sees the german like this. 

 

The professor nods. “Good. Arthur, you eat that other cracker, and Gilbert, you get him home and make sure he drinks plenty of fluids and doesn’t move around too much.” He looks to Arthur. “If you start feeling short of breath, you have trouble moving your arms or your legs, or you don’t get better in a few hours, go to the emergency center, okay? And make sure to go see your doctor sometime. There might be an underlying cause for dizziness, especially if you have this problem a lot.” The professor smiles a little and stands up. “Now, I have to get back to classes. Take care of yourselves.” 

 

“We will. Thanks, dude!” Gilbert waves at the manas he walks away, and then he turns to Arthur. “So, are you going to explain what that was?” His face is serious, dark and unsmiling. Arthur wants to hide.

 

“Can we go back to my flat first? I’m exhausted.” He’s proud that his voice isn’t shaking, but still, he wishes he could have avoided the whole thing. If only he was stronger, this wouldn’t have happened. 

 

Gilbert looks doubtful, but he nods and sighs anyway. “Fine.” His eyes shift, and Arthur knows he’s eyeing the cracker still uneaten. “Eat that, will you?” His voice is calm, but Arthur wishes it wasn’t. This cracker is more than a cracker. It’s a symbol of his weakness, his tendency to give in. He’ll eat it, and he’ll regret it. He takes a bite and pretends he doesn’t see the faint look of relief on Gilbert’s face. It’s just a cracker. Shoving the rest of the cracker into his mouth and ignoring the sweet, salty flavour, he sits up, shifting his legs so he can stand. 

 

“Let’s go.” Arthur starts to stand, only to fall back onto the couch with a faint bit of surprise. Normally, he’s fine to stand after a few moments rest, so what’s wrong? Gilbert doesn’t say anything, instead grimacing and looking so worried that it makes Arthur want to punch him. Him, Alfred, Antonio, Francis. They shouldn’t worry about him, because he’s fine. Gilbert turns around and crouches down in front of him, and Arthur is confused for a moment less than he would like to be.

 

“Get on. I don’t really want you passing out and hitting your head. I’m too awesome to let that happen to my friend.” Gil sounds at least a little embarrassed, and Arthur realizes why with a start as his cheeks go red. There’s  _ no way  _ he’s going to ride on Gilbert’s back.

 

“Artie, if you don’t get on, I’ll carry you like a girl and somehow I doubt you want that.” Gilbert glances back at Arthur, and he sighs, knowing that he’s not going to win this battle.

 

“Fine.” He wraps his arms and legs around Gilbert, holding tightly as the other man stands up, two warm hands holding the underside of his knees.

 

“Fuck, he’s so  _ light. _ ” Gilbert says it so quietly that Arthur is certain he wasn’t meant to hear. He pretends he didn’t just to play along. Gilbert starts walking, and Arthur realizes very quickly that being carried is making him a lot dizzier. He rests his head on Gil’s shoulder, shutting his eyes.

 

“You good back there? My car’s right outside this building.” That’s a relief. Arthur had been worried that Gilbert had parked far away, or worse, that he took the bus to class.

“I’m fine. Just hurry up.” Arthur hopes he doesn’t sound too ungrateful. He might not like being in the situation, but he’s glad that it was Gil he ran into and not a stranger. Or worse, Francis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it! Next chapter will feature some more suffering, as always


	17. Careful car rides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur isn't sure what Gilbert wants from him.

The car ride is short, but it seems longer in the tense silence that fills the air. Arthur leans against the cool glass of the window and stares resolutely out at the scenery on campus, while Gilbert drives with fists clenched tight over the steering wheel. He doesn’t ask questions, and Arthur doesn’t offer any information, instead wishing he had data on his phone so that he could double check the calories of saltines. They’re 42, right? Not more?

 

The car pulls to halt in front of Arthur’s building, and he unbuckles his seatbelt with shaking hands. He thinks he can probably walk just fine by now, for sure with those crackers boiling like acid in his belly. It doesn’t just hurt him mentally (and it certainly does that), but he can feel his stomach cramping and burning. Maybe he’s getting refeeding syndrome and he’ll die. For some reason, it almost sounds better than having to bullshit his way through Gilbert’s concern, because telling the truth is certainly not an option. He open the car door and steps out onto shaky legs.

 

“Whoa, you sure you should be walking?” Gilbert sounds alarmed, and looks even more so from where he’s still sitting in the drivers seat. Arthur swallows before speaking, and he can still taste the crackers.

 

“I think I’m fine now.” Arthur’s voice is level and controlled. Otherwise, Gilbert would probably try to carry him again. 

 

The look Gil gives him is certainly not convinced. “Right, and you also probably think that you’re perfectly healthy. You stumble  _ once,  _ and I’m carrying you.” Gilbert gets out of the car on his side, and his voice is fainter when he speaks again. “Does this place have elevators?” 

 

Arthur follows him towards the building, concentrating on his balance and not being dizzy. “Yeah.” He watches the ground with a lot more care than usual, because if he trips on a stick or an uneven bit of sidewalk, he’ll probably end up on the ground and that certainly would not be fun. That, and he doesn’t want Gilbert to carry him again. He sees the tiles of the floor before he sees the door, and when he glances up Gilbert is holding it open for him. Such a gentleman. 

 

“Thanks.” And Arthur can't be impolite, even if he is kind of irritated. Gilbert nods in response, but Arthur doesn’t say anything else. Not that he would normally. The air conditioning of the building hits him like it normally does, in a wave. He shivers and crosses his arms, trying to rub goosebumps away. He’s wearing a jumper, like usual, but it can’t seem to keep him warm. Bitterly, he thinks that those saltines should be warming him up, that they’re not doing their job. Arthur kind of wants to cry. Saltines. He wants to cry over saltines.

 

But he’s in the elevator with Gilbert now, who’s looking less stern and more worried by the moment. Arthur can’t cry, not now. Gilbert would freak. The elevator dings, and Arthur steps out in front of Gilbert, who stumbles a little when he rushes to catch up. Who needs carrying now? Arthur pats all of his pockets before finding the key to his flat, which he unlocks as quickly as possible before ducking inside, not bothering to hold the door for the German just behind him. Arthur’s glad that he lives near the elevator. And that his couch is relatively near his door. Arthur sinks down into it, closing his eyes for just a moment as Gilbert scrambles into the flat and slams the door behind him. He’s probably pissed, thanks to Arthur. Good.

 

“Alright, so are you going to explain now?” Gilbert plops down next to Arthur on the couch, folding his arms over his chest (although he probably isn’t cold) and looking angry. The worried crease in his brow ruins the effect.

 

“No. There’s nothing no explain.” And there isn’t. Because there’s nothing wrong with Arthur, not at all. He’s just faking. A liar. 

 

Gilbert huffs. “Then why’d you faint in the bathroom?” He shifts his arms slightly, then crosses his legs. Arthur does that too sometimes, closing off when he’s uncomfortable. But recently, it’s like he’s always uncomfortable. 

 

“I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Studying. With rum.” Can’t hurt to bring alcohol into it. That might actually make sense. Unlike the way Arthur’s been lately, which makes absolutely  _ zero  _ sense. He used to just... eat and eat, even though he felt like crap. And now he’s suddenly having to force down anything? He’s stopped eating? It’s probably temporary. 

 

“Sure, I  _ totally  _ believe that.” To Arthur’s credit, he doesn’t even twitch at Gilbert’s sarcasm. “Let’s stop kidding around. I know about your... thing.” That’s new. Arthur blinks dully at Gilbert, who just looks uncomfortable.

 

“You know about my thing? What?” Arthur thinks he knows, but he doesn’t want to realize. 

 

Gilbert swallows, and Arthur can see his adam’s apple bob. “Francis, Antonio, and I don’t keep secrets from each other. Even things that aren’t our business to share. So uh. I know about your eating disorder.” Gilbert chokes out that last bit, and Arthur faintly thinks that it’s not  _ really  _ a disorder. Just a failure. Or maybe even an inconvenience. He’s not sick. 

 

“I’m not sick.” See. There. He said it. 

 

“Uh, yeah, you are.” Gilbert doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s wrong. Arthur isn’t sick. Gilbert clears his throat.

 

“Franny said you were recovering though. That you were eating. And Toni said you took some churros from him.” Gilbert says it all almost like a question. Arthur elects not to answer. “So, are you... not? Recovering?”

 

“I can't recover because there was nothing wrong in the first place. I’m fine. I’m in control.” And he is. Finally, he’s not binging. Not eating more than he should. Not gaining weight. 

 

Gilbert flails his arms for a second before seeming to gather himself. “There’s definitely a problem! You nearly passed out! What if you’d been out in the middle of nowhere? Or somewhere sketchy?” Gilbert sounds very... hot headed. Arthur feels cold. But, he can’t help to think that if he had passed out somewhere dangerous, it would be better than this. Because this way, he might be forced to eat more. If he was dead, he couldn’t gain more weight.

 

“I’m fine Gil. Leave me alone.” Arthur feels like something sticky is catching in his throat. He needs to... do something. Exercise. Sleep. Maybe have a cup of tea. Not cry, which is what he’s about to do. 

 

“No. I’m not going to let you do this to yourself. With Alfred it’s different. He’s  _ trying _ . You’ve given up.” Gilbert is angry, and Arthur can’t help but think it’s different with Alfred because Alfred is actually sick. Maybe Arthur should give up. Give up eating, give up friends. Maybe give up living. Couldn’t be that bad. Although, Arthur realizes that he’s never really been suicidal before, because that’s what this is. He’s thinking about killing himself. Whoops.

 

“And if I have? It’s not like I have anything to show for it. I’m not underweight.” He’s not. Despite his bitching and starving and all of this effort on the part of his friends, he’s still 9 stone 7.2 pounds. Too much.

 

“No, you might not be, but you’re clearly hurting yourself and you’re skinny enough already! This wouldn’t be a problem if you started eating again! If you stopped now, you’d be fine!” Gilbert is yelling, and Arthur kind of wants to cover his ears. He’s not sick enough, not if stopping would be enough. He’s never going to be sick enough if he eats. 

 

“If I’m not underweight, then I’m not stopping. I have a goal and I’m going to get to it.” Arthur could never say this stuff to Alfred. He’d freak out, and then Arthur wouldn’t get away with anything. Alfred would make him eat, and then he’d be fat forever. 

 

Gilbert drags a hand down his face, trying to calm himself. Probably because he doesn’t want to yell at the faker. “How much do you even weigh? It can't possibly be good for you, even if it’s technically not underweight.”

 

Arthur doesn’t want to say, but he does. “9 stone and 7.2 pounds.” Does Gilbert even know stone and pounds? He’s German, and they use kilograms. 

 

“That’s really low already! You don’t need to lose anything else!” Gilbert is shouting again. Arthur wants to curl up into a ball. He pulls his knees up to his chest and stares blankly ahead. Why is Gilbert bothering? He doesn’t care. Francis, Alfred, and Kiku might, but not Gilbert. He’s a friend of a friend.

 

“You don’t really care.” Arthur whispers it. Gilbert doesn’t reply immediately. The fat around Arthur’s waist and thighs burns against his bones. 

 

There's a rustling, a shifting noise from Gilbert. “I do care. Is... is that what this is about? People caring?” He sounds quiet, uncertain. Arthur feels empty.

 

“No, it’s not. I...” He doesn’t know what it’s about. Why he’s doing this. He knows he’s fat, knows he hates it, knows he wants to be sick, but he doesn’t know  _ why _ . It doesn’t matter why. He needs to be sick, sick for real. Otherwise he’s just faking this whole thing and it’s gross and ugly and he’s failure. He rests his head on his knees and moves his arms so they hide his face. 

 

He feels a warm hand on his back. He doesn’t move, but he’s sure that Gilbert can feel him tensing up. 

  
“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything else. Just... please don’t do this to yourself. You don’t deserve this.” Gilbert’s voice is soft but bittersweet, choked with tears and Arthur’s doubts. He can’t fully trust that Gilbert cares, because he’s not even sure he trusts himself at this point. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this is so late. 
> 
> AN is edited because I'm no longer super upset c:


	18. Home Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is handling things just fine. No problems here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck this is so late. And this time frame for updates will probably become the norm because school's strting up soon.... sorry guys! I'm doing a lot better though!

Arthur shuts the door with a sigh of relief. Sure, Gilbert is his friend and all, but... Arthur can’t handle the lecturing right now. He’d much, much rather just do his own thing. Relax. Not worry about food. 

 

Speaking of food, Arthur’s hungry, and it’s annoying. He shouldn’t be eating, not now. He’s only supposed to eat when Alfred is around. Only when he needs to keep up his image of fine, okay, great. Not times like now, when he’s sad and everything feels gross; these times are not for food. But, he is still dizzy...

 

Arthur shakes his head and walks through his house and into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and all but throwing himself on his bed. He’s going to rest. That’s what Gilbert told him to do before he left, and it’ll make him feel better than food ever could. Food is evil, and he doesn't need it. Nevermind the fact that Gilbert  _ also _ told him to eat something for dinner. He’s too fat for dinner, so that’s out of the question. Unless he factors in that he hasn’t eaten in days, except for those saltines of course. One small meal couldn’t hurt, could it?

 

Arthur stands back up and walks back into the hallway with new determination. Yes, he’s going to actually eat something. Alfred would be proud. He can eat without gaining weight. One meal won’t hurt. 

 

He steps into the kitchen and pulls open the fridge. Applesauce, or rice cakes? He glances over at his pantry, dismayed to see that he’s out of the latter. Applesauce it is then. None of Alfred’s sugary yogurts or his fatty sandwiches. No, Arthur’s going to eat what  _ he  _ likes to eat, when  _ he _ likes to eat it. Nobody will control him. Nobody but himself. He can get sick and small and slender without fasting. All fasting does is make him sick, and then people worry too much. He’ll just go back to how he did things in the brief period of time between when he had no self control and when Alfred noticed because he was too obvious. It won’t be an issue.

 

Arthur sits down on the couch, peeling open the container and staring hungrily at the golden contents. He gets a small bite first, because if he gets a big one then it’s proof he’s hungry. He’s  _ not  _ hungry (not  _ weak _ ), but his body is. Because of that, he’s got to give it some fuel. Just fuel, not food. 

 

He licks the applesauce off the spoon, the tangy, familiar flavor flooding his tongue. Yes, this is what he should be eating. This is good. He smiles and gets a slightly larger spoonful, putting it into his mouth without hesitation. He can remember now why applesauce is one of his safe foods. It’s good, but not so good that he’ll want more and more and more. He swallows another spoonful, and the container is nearly empty. They’re such small little tubs. He frowns, scraping the inside of the cup with his spoon, getting every last trace of applesauce. God, he’s still so hungry. This isn’t fair, is it? Other people eat three full meals and snack and still stay skinny, but Arthur only eats two saltines and a tub of applesauce after not eating for  _ days _ . He deserves better. He deserves more. 

 

Arthur stands up and heads towards the fridge, throwing the empty plastic cup into the garbage as he walks past it. What should he have? Not another applesauce. That was too unsatisfying. Yogurt? Yeah, yogurt is safe enough. Only 100 calories. He can handle that just fine. 

 

He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a container of yogurt. It looks so small. Hadn’t it looked huge just the other day? Whatever. Arthur doesn’t even bother going back to the couch, leaning against the closed fridge and peeling back the foil lid right there. The yogurt is separated, but he licks the bits stuck to the lid anyway. It’s sour. Arthur stirs the yogurt, his spoon getting coated right up to where his fingers are holding it because he’s being sloppy. Oh well. He licks the yogurt off of his fingers, barely registering the taste. The texture is creamier, better than he remembers. He should do this more often. The food thing. Where he eats. 

 

He shoves a spoonful into his mouth and swallows it, the cold yogurt sliding down his throat. Licking his lips clean of vanilla yogurt, he readies another spoonful and wastes no time in eating it. When he scoops the yogurt out in big spoonfuls like this, it only takes a few spoonfuls to empty the cup, and as he gulps down his third spoonful he has to scrape the plastic to get the last bits, just like with the applesauce. And just like the applesauce, Arthur is still hungry. 

 

But he shouldn’t have any more. Arthur’s perfectly aware of what he’s doing, and he throws his spoon into the sink with a vengeance. That's enough. A 150 calorie meal is  _ huge _ . He doesn't need any more food. He’s good. He opens the fridge, empty yogurt cup still in his hand. He eyes the fruit, the sandwiches, the yogurt hungrily, eventually deciding on the cream cheese and cucumber sandwich. He grabs half, just one neatly cut triangle (it’s even decrusted, because Francis is a perfectionist). He shuts the fridge, taking a bite. All that he tastes is creaminess, crunch, and cold. He swallows his bite and takes another, smaller bite. 

 

What is he doing? This is food. It has  _ calories _ . He’s going to gain weight if he keeps this up. He needs to stop. He drops the yogurt cup and the rest of the sandwich into the bin. 150 plus, what, 50 calories for two bites of sandwich (probably full fat cream cheese too, because Francis doesn’t cut any corners on decadence)? Too much. It’s too much. Arthur is suddenly aware of a full sensation in his stomach, an uncomfortable lack of feeling. He’s not hungry. Disgusting. He marches back down the hallway, into his room, and locks the door behind him. He  _ clearly  _ can’t be trusted with being in the main room. 

 

Sighing, he sits down on the edge of his bed. Around 250 for the day. That’s far more than his usual 150, or the 0 he’s been able to manage lately. He’s disgusting. Tomorrow he’ll probably weigh two or three pounds more, and he’ll be fasting again of course. No more food; he clearly doesn’t have the self control for that. He needs to fix this, somehow. He feels so greasy, so  _ gross _ . Exercise, perhaps? He can’t do anything cardio related because the flat below his would hear. Sit ups it is then. 

 

Arthur lies down on the carpet, about to start, when he hears a beep that could only come from his phone. He groans, but gets up anyway. Who would bother texting him, anyway? Francis never talks to him unless it’s in person or he’s drunk, and Alfred seems to prefer phone calls. It could be Kiku, or Matthew, Arthur supposes. He presses the unlock button, and sees the name on the notification, his eyebrows shooting up. Gilbert? It probably shouldn’t be that big of a surprise. Arthur opens the text message. 

 

**_Gilbert (5:37 PM):_ ** _ hey dude, did you eat anything or did you just tell me you would to get me out of your apartment? _

**_Gilbert (6:02 PM):_ ** _ dude cmon i know you’re not busy _

**_Arthur (6:02 PM):_ ** _ Sorry, I wasn’t in the room.  _

**_Gilbert (6:03 PM):_ ** _ oh okay lol. but did you eat? _

 

Well, Arthur might as well be honest. He feels like crap anyway, and even if Gilbert says something to Francis, the frog will think it’s a good thing that Arthur’s fattening himself up.

 

**_Arthur (6:03 PM):_ ** _ I did. Too much, to be honest. _

**_Gilbert (6:03 PM):_ ** _ i’m glad you had something though. are you okay? _

**_Gilbert (6:03 PM):_ ** _ i mean like you’re not freaking out right? it’s okay to eat a little more than usual sometimes. _

**_Arthur (6:04 PM):_ ** _ I’m not freaking out. I just wish I had had more self control.  _

 

He really does want that. If only he could just fast forever, eat when he wanted/needed to, and never falter. That would be the life. Or, if he was thin and sick and beautiful, and he could eat just enough to sustain his weight. That would be even better.

 

**_Gilbert (6:04 PM):_ ** _ it’s okay man. trust me, you’re not gonna magically become a sumo wrestler because you had a snack. although i gotta ask, how much did you have? you don’t have to tell me, i’m just curious. _

**_Arthur (6:04 PM):_ ** _ No, you’re being nosy. _

**_Gilbert (6:05 PM):_ ** _ the awesome me, nosy????? never!!!! _

 

He complained, but to tell the truth, Arthur wants to tell Gilbert. He wants him to know, to see. Maybe he won’t worry so much as an added bonus.

 

**_Arthur (6:06 PM):_ ** _ I’m fine with telling you though. I had an applesauce (50 calories), a yogurt (100 calories), and part of a sandwich (most likely around 50). _

**_Gilbert (6:06 PM):_ ** _ dude that is not “too much” trust me on this, that’s like _

**_Gilbert (6:06 PM):_ ** _ half of a meal. maybe a whole small breakfast. you’re fine bro.  _

**_Arthur (6:07 PM):_ ** _ It’s a lot for me.  _

**_Gilbert (6:07 PM):_ ** _ yeah, but you really needed that food. the human brain alone uses like, 1000 plus calories or something _

**_Arthur (6:08 PM):_ ** _ I suppose. I know it’s probably pointless to ask, but please don’t tell Alfred or Francis about this. They’ll react poorly. _

**_Gilbert (6:08 PM):_ ** _ only if you start eating _

**_Arthur (6:08 PM):_ ** _ You know it’s not that easy. _

**_Gilbert (6:09 PM):_ ** _ it isn’t, i know. listen, if you eat one meal with me watching you each day, which i suspect is more than what you’re eating now, i’ll keep this on the downlow. but at some point, you need to actually recover. this isn’t good for you and it’s not worth it. _

**_Arthur (6:10 PM):_ ** _ That works for me. Which meal? _

**_Gilbert (6:10 PM):_ ** _ lunch maybe?  _

**_Arthur (6:10 PM):_ ** _ I’m free from around 11:30 to noon most days.  _

**_Gilbert (6:11 PM):_ ** _ sounds like a plan. you can bring your own food if you want, but it’s gotta actually be a whole meal’s worth. _

**_Arthur (6:11 PM):_ ** _ I’ll try.  _

**_Gilbert (6:12 PM):_ ** _ that’s all i’m asking for. i gtg, see you tomorrow in the dining hall? _

**_Arthur (6:12 PM):_ ** _ I’ll be there. Goodbye. _

 

What is he getting himself into? He’s not going to be able to eat a full meal every day. It’s too much. What would he even bring? A yogurt? Is that a full meal? Arthur can’t remember anymore. Everything sounds like too much food. But he’s going to have to eat  _ something.  _

  
He’ll just bring something light. Just to start with. A banana? Maybe, but bananas are sugary... a salad? There’s a salad bar at the dining hall, but Arthur’s not really sure he’s up for that. He could always bring a can of soup, a rice cake, and a pot of applesauce. Safe foods. And that’s  _ got  _ to be a full meal, right? It’ll be plenty. It has to be, because Arthur feels sick at the thought of eating even that much. It wouldn’t be so bad if he hadn’t just  _ stuffed _ himself a few minutes ago. Gilbert’s mistaken, he doesn't need to eat. He already eats far too much, and there’s no way he’s  _ sick _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Artie.

**Author's Note:**

> hooo eeeee how was that guys
> 
> just kidding i know it sucked, love y'all and have a good night.
> 
> (reviews and kudos would be really nice but don't if you don't want to)


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